


The Rancher and the Mail Order Bride

by ShirleyAnn66



Series: All the Roads are Winding - Additional Universes [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Historical AU, Mixed with that ASOIAF flavour, Romanticized combination of the 1800s in the Canadian West and Australia's early years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShirleyAnn66/pseuds/ShirleyAnn66
Summary: For two hundred years, Medietos, the fifth continent discovered west of the Sunset Sea, was used as the dumping ground for Westeros' unwanted prisoners.  The desolate and unpopulated land was intended to be a death sentence...only some prisoners survived and thrived.  Now they've gained their independence and need more women to help turn the fledgling country into a home.Brienne Tarth can find no place or purpose in Westeros and no man to wed her.  With a hostile stepmother and two young sisters to protect, she agrees to marry Ronnet Connington, sight unseen, in one last attempt to find a home.With equal parts hope and fear, she sets out for Brandywine Hill, a small settlement in the western plains of Medietos.Jaime Lannister, transported at the age of 17 for killing Mad King Aerys, may have staked a claim in Brandywine Hill but he still yearns for the woman he loves and the life he left behind, and he's willing to move all seven heavens and all seven hells to return home....home isn't always what one expects.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: All the Roads are Winding - Additional Universes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818103
Comments: 272
Kudos: 269





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning 1:** Strong language. It's also Red Ronnet Connington, so...is "being an asshole" a language?
> 
>  **Warning 2:** Brief dialogue/text that sexualizes children. Location: Second Brienne section. Nothing graphic but definitely cringe-inducing, so considering this is an AU and not canon-compliant, I thought it's better to warn for it. While I have a strict "no spoilers" policy (mainly because I don't always know what's coming next either so your guess is a good as mine), in this case, I'll break that rule to say this is the worst it gets in this fic.

***/*/*/*/***

**Brienne**

The closer they get to Brandywine Hill, the more Brienne struggles to keep her despair and fear hidden from her sisters.

Not that Arianne and Alysanne were supposed to be with her to witness her despair and fear. They were supposed to stay behind in Westeros, safe with Roelle. Their stepmother may not have loved the twins but she at least did not hate them the way she hated Brienne. Brienne had not even wanted her sisters to see her off at the docks of Evenfall Hall, afraid she would not be able to remain stoic if they cried, afraid her will would break and she would never get on the ship if they begged her to stay. They had pleaded so strenuously and tearfully to escort her, however, that, in the end, not even their stepmother could stand against them, and if Roelle could not stand firm, Brienne had no hope of doing so. To her surprise, Roelle even reluctantly agreed to accompany them to the docks herself although mayhaps it was only to ensure Brienne boarded the ship.

Brienne had been so proud of herself. She had stood firm when the twins flung themselves against her, sobbing. She had comforted and soothed them, told them she’d write as soon and as often as possible. She didn’t tell them she didn’t believe Roelle would allow her letters to reach them. It didn’t matter. They would forget soon enough about their unfortunate elder sister who had gone off to Medietos to marry a transported criminal she’d never met because no one in Westeros would have her. If Brienne was fortunate, they mayhaps would remember her with more fondness than shame in future years, as Arianne and Alysanne shared gentle gossip about their highborn husbands and watched their children play.

_Husbands and children._

Brienne coughs on the dust churned up by the lumbering covered wagons ahead of hers as fear once again shivers down her spine. There is a man waiting for his bride to arrive at Brandywine Hill but what will he do once he finally sets eyes upon her? She prays he is kind enough to look past her failings. Surely even a man transported to Medietos as a criminal must have _some_ kindness? Or mayhaps she should simply pray he is desperate enough that any woman will do, here in this new country created by Westeros’ unwanted prisoners.

Oh, she had told him what she looked like, this man she has never seen and from whom she has received only three terse letters, all more concerned with her bride price than herself and which told her little more about him than his name: Ronnet Connington. Still, she carefully nurtures a small flame of hope. Brienne had provided him with as much graphic detail as she could muster about her looks and he still responded with an offer of marriage. But she is no more a wordsmith on paper than she is when she speaks, and what is described in written words is a much different thing when seen in the flesh.

_Flesh._

The very word brings up vague images that make Brienne cringe. A husband has rights, and a husband who has spent time and money to find a bride in this way has every right to expect the woman to act as a true wife on their wedding night...or will he be unable to do so once he realizes she had not lied about herself in her letters? For a moment, she quails, wanting nothing more than to turn this wagon around and run back to Port Rainer and from there to Tarth. Mayhaps it would have been better to allow Roelle to beat her down inch by inch than open herself up to someone who could destroy her with a word.

“Brienne,” Alysanne says, “stop brooding.”

She’s a sunny child, who, like her twin, fortunately inherited their mother’s fair and fine beauty. Brienne’s heart clenches at the thought of her sisters struggling in this harsh landscape and beneath the even harsher work of the Fifth Continent’s newly opened frontier. This is no place for them—they’re not like her. She’s taller than most men, broad-shouldered, thick-waisted, built to swing an axe or plow a field. There was no place and no man that wanted her in Westeros, but she can be useful here, she’s sure of it. Her sisters, though, even at such a young age, are delicately boned, fragile, and should have stayed under Roelle’s watchful eye as she taught them how to hold court in the sitting rooms of Tarth and Westeros, to be ladies and wives to highborn men who would pamper and protect them in the manner they deserve.

Brienne tastes the dust on her lips, feels its grit in her teeth, as her gaze roves over the vast, empty plain that surrounds them, broken only by the occasional tree and the low-lying buildings of Brandywine Hill. She glances at her sisters and feels the same urge to weep she’s felt ever since they surprised her on the ship three days after leaving the Arbor, the last port before the long ocean voyage to Medietos, when it was far, _far_ too late to do anything about it.

“You should have stayed behind,” is all Brienne says and turns her attention back to the lines in her hands and the four oxen plodding ever onward at the end of them.

*/*/*/*/*

**Jaime**

Jaime arrives in town just as the first covered wagon trundles into the yards, and he can’t help but feel a surge of excitement even though there is nobody on that train for him.

A wagon train arriving in Brandywine Hill is still a big event, even if it’s beginning to happen more and more frequently. Immigrants, Jaime thinks with something almost like wonder, _real_ immigrants, not prisoners sent into an exile the Iron Throne hoped would be a death sentence. Still only a trickle, of course, because it’s difficult to convince people, especially single women, from the Old Country to take a chance on settling in what used to be a penal colony and is now governed by the very criminals they once condemned. Jaime hopes that will change once word of the recent changes to the Homesteaders’ Law reaches the smallfolk of Westeros.

Until then, some of Jaime’s fellow convicts have taken to finding brides by placing ads in newspapers in the Old Country, seeking beautiful, adventurous women willing to travel here to marry men they’ve never met. The process is painfully slow. When Jaime was transported, the highborn had only just begun investing in steam ships and even now, almost seventeen years on, most of the ships plying the vast Sunset Sea still do so under sail. Unless the woman can afford a ticket on one of the few steamships, she faces six weeks on the ocean to Port Rainer, then another four or more weeks of overland travel to Brandywine Hill, then even more weeks of travel to reach the further settlements. For a woman, even one desperate for a husband, agreeing to undertake such a journey is dangerous and daunting, and the uncertainty of what will greet her at the end of it makes it even more so.

They were the worst of the worst, after all, he thinks as he kicks his horse into a trot and heads to the yards, or at least that’s what the Mad King told everyone.

Even with all the challenges, Jaime has seen at least a half dozen or more long distance brides travel through Brandywine Hill in the last few months, and from what he’s heard, there are more on the way. There’s even one, if the rumors are true, on her way now to marry Red Ronnet Connington, poor woman. Connington is no worse than any of the rest of them and better than some but almost painfully dull. Even the crime that resulted in his transportation to Medietos is dull. At least he isn’t Gregor Clegane. A more brutal man Jaime has yet to meet, monstrous, even, and he met his end far more mercifully than he deserved.

The memory of Clegane always makes Jaime think of Lady Margaery and he wonders how she’ll feel once this respectable woman arrives from Westeros. The only other women in Brandywine Hill are those who still or once worked for Lady Margaery. Being transported with nothing but the clothes on their backs made them all desperate, Jaime thinks with a tinge of bitterness, then he grins.

Doesn’t matter where they began or even where they are now, he thinks as he rides down Main Street towards the wagon yards and lifts his hand in greeting to the lady in question. They’re in Medietos now. They make their own rules.

*/*/*/*/*

The long line of ox-drawn canvas-covered wagons are still rumbling into the yards when Jaime dismounts from his horse and ties it to the hitching post. He pushes up the brim of his hat and looks around for the Master of the Train. With luck, it’s Tormund, Jaime’s oldest and closest friend here in Medietos. Jaime knew he never would have survived his exile without him and the others like him.

He hears Tormund before he catches sight of the older man’s shaggy white hair and fulsome beard. He is already holding court with the townsfolk who, like Jaime, have hurried to greet the wagon train and its occupants. Jaime pushes his way through the crowd and Tormund’s grin is almost as wide as Jaime’s once he catches sight of him.

They shake hands and slap each other’s shoulders as Jaime says, “Good journey?”

“As good as it can be in this godsforsaken place. At least we were spared a stampede of bison, much to the disappointment of the youngest of our travellers.” Tormund’s smile is warm although his eyes are searching as he eases Jaime away from the crowd. “Have you given any more thought to what we talked about the last time I was here?”

Jaime grimaces. “We haven’t seen each other in months, and you begin this nonsense the moment you see my face,” he says. “Nothing has changed. You know my chances of becoming Warden are slim.”

Tormund grins. “They may be fatter than you think,” he says. “If we’re going to hold control over the destiny of this land that we claimed with our blood and sweat and tears, then we need a government and a Warden who understands where we are and where we came from. You’re also a highborn yet one of us. You know how to talk to those newly arrived highborn bastards, holing up in their fancy houses in Port Rainer.” He shakes his head. “We’ve barely allowed them a toehold in our country and they’re already talking about how they’ll run things once they get settled.” Tormund turns his head and hawks a gob of spit into the dust.

Jaime laughs. “You don’t need me to talk to them—they’ll learn soon enough this isn’t Westeros, just like the rest of us.”

“So you’ll stand for election when the time comes?”

Jaime shakes his head. “Highborn or no, I am the Kingslayer. Even here, there is no getting away from that. Besides, I intend to return to Westeros as soon as I receive word King Robert has finally granted me a pardon.”

Tormund laughs at that, a loud, raucous bellow that shakes his belly and makes everyone around them turn and look.

Jaime gives him a quizzical smile.

Tormund shakes his head. “You think you’re going back to Westeros, boy, but you’ve been here too long. Do you really want to go back to that place with its squabbling kneelers to the Iron Throne, all kissing the arse of a King who is too much like the old one for my taste. Why return there when you could stay here and make your own rules?”

“There’s a woman...”

“And if she won’t come to you, you’ll go to her, is that it?” Tormund shakes his shaggy head and says, “Think about it, boy.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “This came for you on the last ship before we left Port Rainer.” He raises an eyebrow as Jaime snatches it from his hand. “From the woman, I take it?”

Jaime stares at the familiar writing on the envelope, his heart bursting with love and yearning, hope and joy as he nods.

“Well, if she is still loyal to you after all these years then mayhaps she is a woman worth the New World. Still…you know why we call it the _Old_ Country.” Tormund shrugs. “Besides, you can always come back when you find out Westeros doesn’t fit the same as it used to.”

Jaime’s smile is blinding as he holds up the envelope and says, “ _She_ is all I need.”

*/*/*/*/*

**Brienne**

Brienne’s palms are sweating from more than just the exertion of handling the oxen and the heat when they pull into the wagon yards and townsfolk—towns _men_ , for Brienne cannot see a single woman in the milling bodies—crowd around the newcomers.

She turns to her sisters. “Stay in the wagon until I call for you,” she says.

“Don’t be absurd,” Alysanne says. “This is our new home as well and we will not allow you to face your new husband alone!”

Before she can object, both Alysanne and Arianne are scurrying to the back of the covered wagon and she hears them open the tailgate and clamber out.

Brienne sighs as she wraps the oxen’s lines around the pommel on the dashboard and awkwardly disembarks from the wagon. Even as nervous as she is, it feels good to stretch her legs. Her sisters scamper to join her as she turns to survey the men strolling towards them with consternation writ large on their faces as they take in the size and look of her.

Except for one man, and her breath catches as he pushes his wide-brimmed hat back on his head, exposing his face. That man is staring at her with wide-eyed surprise that turns to cynical amusement.

Beautiful, she thinks. There is truly no other word for him except beautiful and for a moment, she wonders what he did to be banished to this harsh land on the other side of the world. For a moment her heart both soars and falls. Is _this_...?

“Good gods! You _can’t_ be Brienne Tarth!”

Brienne cringes as she turns her attention to the man who uttered those words. Middling height, fiery red hair already receding although he looks no more than thirty, pleasant enough features if he weren’t currently staring at her with stark disbelief which quickly changes to one of horrified disgust and a growing rage.

“ _You?_ ” the man spits, and the word is like a blow to her heart.

She jerks a nod and wishes she could disappear into the churned up dust and mud of the wagon yard. She flicks another glance at the far-too-handsome man watching everything with cynical detachment which, she supposes, is better than pity.

She pulls her attention back to the sneering man in front of her, now raking her up and down with his eyes. “Why would I ever agree to take a woman such as _you_ to wife?” he snarls. “Even here, none are so desperate! Go back to the barn you came from!”

It takes all her courage to remain standing tall even as she shrivels inside. She lifts her chin, feeling as exposed as if she were naked in this wagon yard instead of in her dusty travel-worn trousers and shirt.

His gaze falls on Alysanne and Arianne, who are peering out from behind her, one on each side. “ _Children?_ You told me naught about needing to take on the care of bastards!”

Brienne lifts her chin as she moves to shield her sisters from this man’s gaze. “These are my sisters, ser, and as trueborn as I. Are you breaking our bargain?”

“What bargain? You lied to me!”

“I did not! I _told_ you—”

“You did not! Do you honestly think I would agree to wed such a one as you? And here you are with your two ‘sisters’ hanging onto your legs, expecting me to feed and clothe and house them as well? What else have you lied about?” Ronnet sneers at her again, once more raking her over with his eyes. “Mayhaps those whelps really are your sisters. No one could fuck you long enough to give you one bastard, let alone two.”

Brienne’s hands clench into fists and she wishes she could knock the sneer off the man’s face. “I told you the truth of me,” she grits out. “In my last letter, before you offered me a marriage contract.”

“Brienne...”

Brienne stills at Alysanne’s soft voice and suddenly she _knows_ , remembering how her sisters had offered to post that letter for her when Roelle had insisted she attend her in the solar.

“Oh, Alysanne...no.”

“I didn’t think...I thought...” Alysanne trails off, tears standing in her beautiful blue eyes, so much like Brienne’s faint memory of their mother’s, and all her anger drains away at the sight.

She’s only twelve, Brienne thinks. She didn’t understand what she was doing.

Brienne’s shoulders slump and she turns back to the furious man she had hoped to wed, the same man she had hoped would be kind to her when he finally saw her in the flesh. She glances at the far-too-handsome man standing behind Ronnet, watching now with a twisted sneer on his lips and she flushes, then straightens her shoulders.

“Then I’ll bid you good day, ser,” she says and turns to her sisters. “Let me speak with the Yard Master and we’ll secure the wagon.” Her smile for her sisters is fleeting although she hopes it’s comforting. “Then mayhaps we’ll explore the town.”

Alysanne and Arianne exchange a glance then step out from behind her bulk and Brienne’s blood freezes as Red Ronnet’s eyes land fully on her sisters for the first time. This time his sneer is filled with lust.

He says, “If you want to give me one of those, or both, we might be able to come to some type of agreement.”

Her sisters shrink back against her and her hands clench again into fists and this time, her nails draw blood from her palms.

“My sisters are not for the likes of you, ser,” she snarls.

Red Ronnet’s face contorts with rage. “The likes of me is all you’ll find here, you great, lumbering sow! You should have thought of that before you hauled their pretty little arses half-way round the world.” He leers at the two girls. “Let me have them now, because I surely won’t want them once they’ve been used a few times, and neither will any of the rest of us.”

Brienne takes a threatening step forward only to be stopped in her tracks by the far-too-handsome, mocking man calling, “Shut your mouth, Connington, else you won’t have any teeth left to chew your evening meal.”

The assembled crowd mutters agreement as Connington glares and sputters but subsides beneath other man’s raised eyebrow and hard eyes. The stranger turns to Brienne and her sisters and appraises them with a faintly mocking air.

“Connington may be an insulting ass,” he drawls, “but he’s right: you should have thought twice before dragging two young girls into a territory that is starved of women.” His green eyes bore into hers. “Do you even have enough money to buy your passage back to wherever you came from?”

Brienne lifts her chin, her hands resting protectively on her sisters’ shoulders.

“We’ll be fine,” she snaps. “Now, who is the Yard Master?”

He sighs. “So, no, then.” He takes off his hat, revealing sweat-darkened golden hair as he wipes his brow and shakes his head before he gestures towards Ronnet. “The Yard Master,” he says.

Brienne’s heart sinks as Connington laughs. “How much money do you have?” he says and his eyes flick again to Alysanne and Arianne.

The stranger gives him a warning glare and says, “Connington will store your wagon and oxen and ensure no harm comes to any of it. Won’t you?”

Connington puffs up then deflates beneath that green-eyed glare.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But some of those contents are mine.”

“Once you pay me for them,” Brienne says, her voice mild yet cold.

“You promised them to me!”

“They were my bride gift to you, as you requested. Do you think I’ll wed you now, ser?”

Connington sputters and the beautiful stranger laughs.

“She has you there, Connington.”

Connington turns a glare on the man that should have dropped him in his tracks but instead leaves him unmoved, hands resting easily on his hips, one eyebrow raised in question.

“You’ll care for the wagon and oxen,” the beautiful stranger says, his voice mild but firm. He glances at the watching crowd of men behind him. “No harm will come to anything the lady owns else there are a number of witnesses here who will demand to know the reasons why.”

Connington growls, and says, “All right. Fine. No harm will come to, _heh_ , ‘the lady’s’ property.”

The beautiful stranger gives him a hard stare then jerks a short nod before he turns to Brienne. “I’ll take you to the tavern. It’s not much but it’s better than Lady Margaery’s.”

Brienne frowns. “Lady Margaery?”

“She owns the brothel,” the man says then laughs as he takes in the horrified expression on her face. “What did you expect? Women commit crimes, too.”

*/*/*/*/*

The tavern is made of rough wood but the room is clean and the bed spacious enough for the three of them to share, even with Brienne’s outsized frame. Even the innkeeper’s pitying stare as the beautiful stranger—Jaime—told him in low tones what happened seems a small price to pay for the luxury of being hidden from prying eyes and away from the smell of oxen and the smoke of cooking fires, even if only for one night.

Brienne wonders if she should have insisted they stay in the wagon yards, at least until after they’d eaten their evening meal. But the girls had looked wistful as they trooped through the tavern and up the stairs, their noses twitching from the savoury smells coming from the tavern’s kitchen.

The bartender looks welcoming enough as Brienne lifts her chin high and asks how much three meals will cost her. The bartender looks at her with undisguised curiosity as he names a price. She mentally cringes. As reasonable as the amount is, it eats away more than she likes of her already-thin purse that has been thinned even more by the cost of a room for the night.

They will need to find someone who will lease them land for the wagon and oxen and Brienne prays it will be cheaper than the tavern. Even if they wanted to leave, the wagon train is staying in Brandywine Hill for several days to rest and replenish their supplies for the weeks’ long journey to the next town further west. There is no wagon train returning to Port Rainer for several weeks or even months from now. Not that it matters. What few coins she has left in her purse wouldn’t be enough to replenish her supplies to take them to the next town or the entire way back to Port Rainer anyway, and definitely not enough to get three of them back to Tarth. She wonders what, if anything, Connington would pay for the goods she brought as her bride price, or if someone else has the coin to do so.

She tells the bartender to give her only two bowls of stew. As she carries them carefully up the stairs and along the dark, narrow hall to their room, she has a sudden, intense wish for a private place, someplace where she can be alone to weep and rage and scream her anguish at the stars.

Arianne and Alysanne give her suspicious looks as they unbar the door to let her in.

“Why do you only have two bowls?” Arianne asks, her voice sharp.

Brienne gives her sisters what she hopes is a convincing smile. “I took the liberty of eating downstairs,” she says. “I was hoping to overhear some local gossip, glean some details about how life is lived in Brandywine Hill.”

Alysanne’s look is supremely skeptical. “Really. And what did you learn while you were wolfing down your stew?”

Brienne racks her brain for something—anything—to tell them. She has never been a good liar nor quick-witted, and she’s especially tired and disheartened since Connington’s callous and public rejection. The weight and humiliation of it all is making her even more lackwitted than usual.

“We need to decide what we’re going to do,” she finally says. “Eat while we discuss it.”

Arianne and Alysanne exchange glances, communicating in a way Brienne has never been able to decipher. Mayhaps it’s because they’re twins, she thinks, and have always had a language all their own. But they each take a bowl and a spoon, and that’s enough.

After several minutes of silent eating, Arianne says, “How bad is it, Brienne?”

“And don’t pretend,” Alysanne adds. “We’re old enough to understand what’s going on and to help.”

Brienne hides a sigh. Twelve years old, teetering on the edge of womanhood, and headstrong with it. She had been willing to sell her body and her soul to ensure their futures were secure but they were supposed to stay in Westeros, with their stepmother. Roelle had promised that if Brienne quietly faded from their lives, she would ensure Alysanne and Arianne would live in luxury with husbands who treated them well.

Now, here they are, all but stranded in the middle of nowhere, unable to go forward or back.

“I never should have trusted,” she mutters and rubs the ache in her forehead.

“How much money do we have?” Arianne asks again.

Brienne hesitates, but they will need to grow up fast if they’re going to survive in this harsh new world. She tells them, then says, “It’s enough to keep us in this room for a couple of weeks...if we don’t eat. Not near enough to get us anywhere else, not even Polson Town, which is several weeks further west. Unless we can sell the supplies I bought as my bride-price, this is as far as we can go.”

Alysanne scowls and abruptly shoves her bowl and spoon into Brienne’s hands. “Here, eat some of this. It’s too much for just me.”

Brienne takes it to keep if from falling then shakes her head. “None of us are good liars,” she says.

“We get that from our father,” Arianne says and they all share a bittersweet smile. Their father has been gone for almost two years but the grief still cuts deep.

“Definitely not from Roelle,” Alysanne mutters and Brienne gives her a warning look.

“She raised us,” Brienne says. “She was going to make good matches for both of you.”

“And forced you out to fend for yourself,” Alysanne snaps. “If Father hadn’t specifically given you money in his will, Roelle would have left you penniless.”

“Besides, she’d already chosen our husbands and wanted us to marry within the next year or two,” Arianne adds, handing over what’s left of her stew to Brienne as well. She shudders. “Old men, with skinny, claw-like hands.”

Alysanne grimaces and nods. “Roelle would have left us with no choice but to accept them, Brienne. You know that. We’ve talked on this before.”

“You would have soon been widowed,” Brienne says, but it’s a weak defense of her stepmother’s decisions and if the situation were not so uncertain, she would be relieved her sisters decided to stowaway on her ship rather than accept the fate Roelle planned for them.

“They already have children, much older than we are. We and our children would have been left with nothing.” Alysanne shakes her head. “No, we made the right decision, Brienne. At least here we can make our own rules.”

*/*/*/*/*

Alysanne’s words echo in Brienne’s head as she stares up at the room’s ceiling long after her sisters are breathing slow and steady beside her, dreaming their child’s dreams. She’s praying for sleep but she can’t stop worrying at how long she can keep them fed and housed with only the money in her purse.

Still...they have the contents of her wagon, the four oxen, and she’s obviously strong and more than capable of working a farm. Mayhaps there are people here wealthy enough to hire farmhands, even if only briefly, and mayhaps they will take pity on her plight. They can at least live in the wagon but she needs to find someone willing to rent land to them. Still, if she’s careful, she may have enough to at least send the girls back to the relative safety of Tarth.

She rolls onto her side, careful not to wake her sisters, and resolutely closes her eyes. Her last thought before sleep finally claims her is to wonder if the beautiful stranger—Jaime—has a homestead nearby, and if he and his wife need a farmhand.

*/*/*/*/*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N1:** I swear, someday I'll write a Septa Roelle and a Red Ronnet Connington who aren't complete and utter assholes. Today is not that day.
> 
>  **A/N2:** Yes, I know I probably warned more than was needed but better to over-warn than not, right? ...right?! LOL


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Jaime pining for Cersei. I'm sorry.

**Jaime**

It’s dark by the time Jaime finally returns to his homestead, the crescent moon casting a weak light across the landscape. It took longer than he expected to settle the jilted bride-to-be and her sisters in their room above the tavern and he would resent the delay if they hadn’t looked so pathetically grateful for his assistance.

Well...the twins, at least, had looked grateful for his assistance. Their older sister had looked like she would enjoy wearing his guts for garters almost as much as she would enjoy wearing Connington’s.

A reluctant smile curves his lips at the memory of her mulish face as he rides past the dark jagged remnants of the house, the thin, crooked shadows of its few remaining timbers wrapping round his shack like the thin, bony fingers of some evil woods witch.

The whimsical thought makes him chuckle. Trees are few and far between around Brandywine Hill, so mayhaps they’re the fingers of some evil plains witch instead.

He shakes his head as he turns the horse towards the barn. He’s obviously tired and he spent more time in town than expected. His mind drifts back to the three hapless strays who had washed up on the shores of Brandywine Hill and the dramatic confrontation in the wagon yards and finds himself grinning as he dismounts and begins to care for his horse. By the time he has the animal unsaddled, rubbed down, and happily running round the paddock, Jaime is chuckling. As unfortunate as the scene had been, Jaime can’t deny he’s impressed with the woman’s—Brienne’s—strength and pride as she weathered Connington’s rejection then proceeded to negotiate a reasonable price for the storage of the wagon and oxen.

Connington is no loss as a husband, Jaime thinks as he strides to his shack, his stomach growling. Even by Medietos’ standards, Connington is no prize. The crimes he committed are no worse than anyone else’s and better than some, but the man’s as trustworthy as a snake and he has never met hard work he’s been unable to shirk. No, this Brienne should thank the Mother for her truly lucky escape even if it doesn’t feel like it now. If Connington’s need for a good, strong wife to plow his fields had been greater than his dislike of her unfortunate looks, Brienne would be suffering through his bedding of her right now instead of being safely locked away with her sisters in a room above the tavern.

Jaime shakes his head as he lights the lantern then turns his attention to the potbellied stove that dominates the single room of the cabin. He wonders why he’s thinking so much on the unfortunate woman when this is the time he allows himself to think of Cersei, to re-read all but one of the missives she’s sent him over the years, and to dream of what might yet be. He touches the pocket over his heart where her most recent letter rests. Something to look forward to, another precious moment of connection with the life he left behind.

Mayhaps she’s sent him the news he most wishes to hear, an end to his exile and permission to return to her side and home. The hope is faint—such news would come under Royal seal not in a plain envelope—but he cannot bring himself to put it aside just yet.

He stirs the coals in the stove back to life and he’s surprised by a yawn as he lifts the lid of the pot he had left on the stove that morning. The savoury scent of bison stew fills his nostrils even though it has long since cooled. He adds a log to the stove, stirs the somewhat gluey mass in the pot, then turns to the table and the far too small pile of letters stacked neatly in the centre of it.

Jaime pours a splash of whiskey into his tin cup then sits down, tenderly picking up the letters and setting them in front of him.

He takes a sip then picks up the first envelope. By the time he finishes reading them again, his stew will be hot. He’ll read the new one after he’s eaten. If nothing else, it will fill his sleep with sweet dreams of Cersei.

He reverently pulls out the thin sheet and opens it, savouring the familiarity of Cersei’s hastily scrawled words with a bittersweet smile. He takes another sip of whiskey and begins to read.

*/*/*/*/*

By the time Jaime finished reading all but one of the old letters, the stew is bubbling on the stove. He substitutes beer for whiskey then serves himself his supper. By the time he’s finished eating and cleaned up, the night outside is pitch black and the wind has picked up, whipping around the corners of his shack like that plains witch has decided to switch her skirts about it in a huff.

He shakes his head as he finally pulls Cersei’s latest letter out of his breast pocket. He breaks the plain wax seal—Cersei knows better than to blatantly mark the letter as from the Queen—and pulls out the single sheet of paper.

He forces himself to read it slowly, cherishing each word written by his sweet sister’s own hand, his hope fading that this is his longed for pardon.

Cersei’s letter is, as usual, light and frothy, filled with the news of life at court, proud descriptions of her children and their antics, and complaints about the King, her husband, and his miserly ways. Jaime scowls at this, thinking he will need to have Tyrion increase Cersei’s monthly stipend and to be more careful in slipping the dragons to her. For all of Robert’s buffoonery, he’s still apparently bright enough to notice when Cersei manages to buy some small luxury without his leave.

It’s not until the very end of the letter that Cersei’s true feelings for him, though carefully phrased, peek through.

_I dream of you often, sweet brother. Please rest assured that I hold you in the same high esteem as I did on the day you left, and I pray to the Seven that someday soon we will see each other again and will no longer need to navigate our lives separately and so much alone._

Jaime slides his finger across the words, careful not to smudge the ink. He conjures up Cersei’s face, the sound of her voice, the scent of her body, and wonders if the depths of his yearning will literally kill him before he can hold her again.

He sighs as he carefully refolds the letter and adds the envelope the existing stack of letters. Sparse comfort, he thinks as he readies himself for bed, but better than nothing at all.

As he slips into sleep, his last thought is of the look on Brienne’s face as Red Ronnet Connington destroyed her dreams.

*/*/*/*/*

**Brienne**

In the morning, Brienne and her sisters have a sparse breakfast of eggs and beans, then leave their room to explore the town. They look both ways down the main street and at either end they see the far, flat horizon shimmering in the early morning heat.

The story of her rejection has spread everywhere, judging from the expressions—ranging from pity to outright mockery—of the people they encounter. Still, the town itself seems solid enough. Brienne sees no women on the street and those they do see are clustered on the front porch of a large, two-storey frame house that is obviously the brothel, judging from the number of men loitering around it. When the women on the porch catch sight of them, they look first startled then give them bashful smiles. Arianne and Alysanne smile back, equally shy. Brienne only glares, wondering why those women decided lives as whores were their best or only option.

Then she remembers the sparse coins in her purse and shudders. What would _her_ options be if she didn’t have the wagon, its contents, and the oxen that pull it?

She softens her expression and nods at the women on the porch, ignoring the avidly watching men and their mocking eyes. She’s rewarded with wider smiles and nods in return.

Her scowl returns once they’re past the brothel, worrying on what to do next. Thankfully she’s strong and willing to work hard for her keep and her sisters’ as well. She just needs to find someone willing to rent her a small patch of land where she and the girls can live out of the wagon. Once she’s managed to save enough money, she’ll send the girls back to Westeros, to their stepmother, and hopefully to the husbands and lives they deserve.

Assuming she can convince any ship’s captain they have the right to return to Westeros and are not simply transported criminals trying to escape Medietos. 

And assuming Roelle will accept them back and allow Brienne to remain at Evenfall Hall until she can think of what to do next. Mayhaps becoming a septa is the only option she has left.

They reach the end of the main street and they turn left to continue exploring the small town. Arianne and Alysanne are chattering cheerfully, exclaiming with what seems to be genuine delight at everything they see.

Brienne keeps her face stoic and listens to her sisters with half-an-ear.

She’s living in a fool’s world. Roelle will never accept them again. If she, Brienne, wants to return them to Westeros and the lives they were born to live, then she will need to make her fortune here, in this harsh new world, and return with them to ensure their future.

...somehow.

*/*/*/*/*

Brienne returns Arianne and Alysanne to their room and tells them she’s going to the wagon yards to check on their belongings and she would be back soon. Her sisters lock the door behind her without argument and Brienne leaves them, comforted with the knowledge that their curiosity about their new home has been sated, at least for the moment.

She strides towards the wagon yard. She’s paid for one week of storage as well as feed and stabling for her oxen—although she dearly wanted to throw the coins in Connington’s mocking face—but she’ll speak to the tavernkeeper upon her return and—

“Come to check on your goods?” says a now-familiar deep voice behind her, sending a shower of sparks across her skin.

She turns and hopes Jaime will think the red tinge in her cheeks is because of the heat.

She nods. “Is there another place to store the wagon and oxen?” she says. “A place that...” she pauses and glances around. No one is near but she lowers her voice anyway. “A place that is not so costly?”

Jaime’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Costly? Don’t tell me you think you needs must continue _paying_ for a place to store your wagon?”

“And the care for the oxen,” she says. “We cannot stay at the tavern forever and I certainly cannot have my sisters living in the wagon yards!” She cringes inside at her defensive tone.

Jaime shakes his head, frowning. “You truly are a tenderfoot, aren’t you? You should have asked more questions of Connington before travelling half-way round the world to marry the man.”

She scowls. “If you have something to say, just say it,” she snaps.

Jaime laughs, a mocking, condescending sound. “Haven’t you heard, Tenny? Land around here is free.”

*/*/*/*/*


	3. Chapter 3

**Brienne**

“You’re interested in homesteading?”

The man—boy, really—behind the desk can’t hide his surprise at Brienne’s question.

She nods. “I understand land is free,” she says. “Is that true?”

The boy’s mouth slowly sags open before he closes it with a snap and says, “How did you...? Never mind. I’m sorry. The King has only recently agreed to publicize the homestead program and I hadn’t expected the news to already be so widespread in Westeros.”

“I learned of it here,” she says, and thinks she’ll make sure to give Jaime a kick in the arse when she sees him again. How was she to know of something if it had only just been announced? Didn’t he know she’s been on a ship and then in a wagon train for months? “Explain it to me.”

Her tone is sharper than intended because the boy’s eyes widen and he gulps. 

She softens. He looks not much older than her sisters.

“Please,” she says, and lowers herself to the chair in front of his desk.

*/*/*/*/*

It’s simple enough once the boy—Pod—explains everything. For a nominal registration fee, any man can be granted a portion of land that will become theirs at the end of five years if the land has been continuously worked and occupied by the homesteader. How much land is granted varies depending on where in Medietos the homestead is located, however, here in the broad, flat plains around Brandywine Hill, the minimum land size is 640 acres, an entire section, to ensure settlers have the best chance of finding water on their property. Once granted, a permanent living shelter must be built within a year, with a certain percentage of new land broken for crops or used for grazing each year. So long as the homesteader meets those requirements, the land is theirs.

For _free_.

Brienne stares at the boy in wide-eyed silence once he’s finished.

“Can a woman file a claim?” she finally asks and ruthlessly pushes down the hope struggling to blossom in her chest.

Pod’s smile is nervous and shy. “If she is the head of her household, yes,” he says and despite herself, hope springs into full bloom. “Our current government, especially the Warden, hopes it might encourage more women to immigrate if they know they can own land in their own right.”

Brienne allows herself a slow, wide smile. “What do I have to do?”

*/*/*/*/*

First she needs to find land on which to file a claim. Pod pulls out a map of the area and they pore over it.

“There’s only one homestead left that’s less than a day’s ride from town,” Pod says earnestly, “but it does have a small pond and several copses. If you’re willing to live several days away from Brandywine Hill, then you can put in a claim on some river land. The farther away you are from town, however, the more difficult homesteading becomes, of course.”

“Of course,” Brienne murmurs and silently ponders the map. Farther away could make it easier to keep her sisters hidden from the view of the men in town, who are likely more like Ronnet Connington than not. Or it could make them more vulnerable since they would be more isolated with no possibility of assistance from the residents of the town.

“We’ll look at the homestead close to town,” she says. “If we don’t like it, then we’ll look further.” She glances up at Pod. “Do you have a wagon?”

Pod nods, his head bobbing like a particularly thirsty bird’s.

“Good,” Brienne says. “I’ll bring my sisters in the morning and you can take us to inspect it.”

*/*/*/*/*

Arianne and Alysanne are far less restrained in their response to her news.

“I knew coming here would be best for all of us!” Arianne cries and Brienne finds herself laughing while her sisters fling their arms around each other and literally jump for joy.

“We haven’t seen this land yet,” Brienne warns even as she wishes she could jump with them. “If we decide to make a claim, nothing will be easy. We will barely be able to acquire enough supplies to build a cabin with the money we have in our pockets, although thank the gods we still have the supplies we purchased in Port Rainer as well as the wagon and oxen. As for food...” She sobers, scowling, thinking of the time of year. “It’s late in the year for planting,” she says. “We may not grow enough to keep us through the winter.”

“We don’t have enough to go forwards and we don’t have enough to go back,” Arianne says, and Brienne’s optimism drains away. “We needs must make our stand here.”

“Failure could mean death,” Brienne says, her voice very quiet.

“Ronnet Connington’s refusal to honour your betrothal could mean death now, even if we stay in town,” Alysanne says.

Brienne swallows and says what she’s been too craven until now to voice. “Not for all of us.”

Her sisters still, their eyes wary.

“I have enough to send you back,” Brienne says and hopes her face is as calm as her voice, “or will if I sell everything that’s in the wagon.” _Including the wagon itself and the oxen_ , she silently adds.

“And leave you with nothing?” Arianne snaps.

“And leave me with enough to start a homestead.” She’s proud of herself. It’s not exactly a lie. If she’s careful and if she can learn to hunt and if she can get at least some vegetables from a garden before winter comes, she should be able to support herself until the spring.

What she would do after that...

“We are not leaving you here alone,” Alysanne says. Her voice is quiet but as firm as their father’s used to be when what he was saying was serious and they needed to pay attention. “We came here with you to make a home for all of us. There is nothing in Westeros for us.”

“Roelle—”

“Roelle will marry us off to the first highborn who offers enough money.”

“If Roelle would even take us in,” Arianne says. “You know she hates to be embarrassed in any way.”

Brienne closes her eyes and prays for strength, then she prays, as she has every day since her sisters appeared before her on the ship, that when she opens her eyes she’ll find herself in her girlhood bedroom and discover this is all a bad dream. Granted, her life with Roelle was far from happy but she at least had a roof over her head.

Unlike now.

She pulls in a deep breath and opens her eyes. “I sent a message to Roelle when we landed in Port Rainer to let her know we had arrived in Medietos, alive and safe. I can send her another to let her know we’ve reached Brandywine Hill. If I can convince her to take you in, will you go?”

Arianne and Alysanne roll their eyes and in that moment, they have never looked more like twins.

“We stay with you,” Alysanne says and Arianne nods.

“Where is this homestead we’re going to see tomorrow?” Arianne asks, eyes bright, and if there’s one thing life with Roelle has taught Brienne, it’s recognizing when a battle is lost in the hopes of winning the war.

*/*/*/*/*

Pod is reduced to red-faced stammering when he meets Brienne’s sisters. They react with pretty charm and Brienne thinks she will have her hands full when they reach an age to marry.

For a moment, she considers bundling them up and shipping them back to Westeros whether they will it or no…but they would only work their way free and there would be all seven hells to pay once they made their way back to her.

*/*/*/*/*

Pod pulls himself together enough to bundle them into his wagon and take them to the potential homestead north of Brandywine Hill. He provides Arianne and Alysanne with the same explanations he had given Brienne the day before and the twins’ questions keep them occupied during the three-hour journey over the gently undulating plains, dotted here and there with small, isolated buildings that even the girls can tell are rough-hewn and fragile.

“Your neighbours, if you claim this section,” Pod explains. He glances at them. “You are the only women, though.”

Brienne nods.

“How often does it rain here?” Arianne asks, almost vibrating with excitement as they near their destination.

“Summers are hot and dry, as you can see, but it rains almost every day in the spring. We also receive more snow than I’d ever seen in Westeros and between the rain and the snow, we usually have enough water to get us through to the following spring.”

“Are the winters as cold as they say?”

Pod grimaces and nods. “If you’re prudent, you’ll stock up on firewood while you can.” He frowns. “We’re well into summer now and winter sometimes comes quickly and without warning. Your first house should be as airtight as you can make it. And make long enough rope to take you from the house to your outbuildings. You’ll need the ropes to guide you when the winter storms come.” He gives them an assessing look. “And wear as many clothes as you can when you venture outside.”

“This will not be an easy life,” Brienne murmurs.

Pod shakes his head. “No.”

“Is there good hunting at least?” she asks.

Pod nods. “There are the bison, of course, and we also have the antifer. They’re like the deer on Westeros only bigger and tougher to kill. There are also entelodonts, but you _do not_ want to come across those.”

“Entelodonts?”

“They have a similar look to wild boar but they’re much larger with long, sharp teeth and are faster than they have any right to be.” He shudders. “We call them hell pigs and thank the Seven they’re most common in the northern forests and seldom seen this far south. Even so, we have some homesteaders who are trying to breed them and some who are attempting to cross them with pigs from Westeros.”

Brienne almost wishes she had not kept them so separate from her fellow travellers on their journey to Brandywine Hill. “Any success?” she asks.

“Some...but we call them hell pigs for a reason. Besides, we've only been allowed to farm and ranch for ourselves for the last ten years so it's not been long enough to know if we’ll be successful in breeding a more docile animal to be raised in any great numbers on farms.”

“You’re very knowledgeable for one so young,” Alysanne says and Pod is reduced once more to red cheeks and stammered words.

“I-I-I have been here for m-m-most of my life,” he finally manages.

Arianne and Alysanne exchange curious glances but Brienne quells them with a stern glare. She’s not certain if it’s considered impolite to ask the residents of Medietos about their history and she doesn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize her chances to be given a homestead claim.

Her sisters understand her silent warning.

“Well, I, for one, am grateful for your assistance,” Brienne says and from the look on Pod’s face, she sounds even more prim than she thinks.

Not that it matters. What matters now is to secure a place for them to call their own before what’s left of their money runs out.

With that thought in mind, Brienne critically assesses the landscape as Pod pulls the horses to a gentle stop beside a small pond with a sparse stand of spindly trees clustered on one side of it. They clamber from the wagon and Brienne puts her hands on her hips and turns in a slow circle.

The land seems relatively flat or gently rolling. There are three tiny scattered copses to the north-northeast although the trees do not seem much larger than the ones beside the pond while in the west she can see a barn. It somehow makes her feel a little less alone here on the vast, empty plains. She knows little about farming or ranching but from what she does know, it looks like a decent place to plant crops and vegetables and raise a few livestock...if there are any to be had.

“How is the farmland here?” Alysanne asks.

Pod blinks. “How is it?”

“Does it produce well once broken and crops are planted?” Alysanne asks. “Or is the land not near as fertile as that in Westeros?”

“If we are to make this a success,” Arianne says, “we needs must understand what it is we are getting if we decide to stake this claim.”

Brienne stares at her sisters like she’s never seen them before. They are but two-and-ten and sound as worldly-wise as women twice their age.

“The land produces well, if the weather is right,” Pod says. “We usually harvest enough to send an annual wagon train to Port Rainer and whatever we cannot sell there, we send on to Westeros. Jaime arranged it all even before the King allowed us to openly trade with merchants back in the Old Country. His brother accepts the shipments—Jaime’s brother, I mean, not the King’s. Jaime’s brother sells the goods then sends us the profits in gold or arranges for shipments of goods or livestock we’ve ordered. It’s one of the reasons why he’s the richest man in the country. Jaime, I mean.”

Brienne frowns. That vexing man is everywhere, it seems. “Where is his property?”

“If you stake this claim then he is your immediate neighbour to the west.”

She stills. “Immediate neighbour?” she says slowly.

Pod doesn’t seem to notice her reaction as he nods. “His home quarter is no more than two miles away,” he says, gesturing towards the barn Brienne had noticed earlier. “You could have seen the top of his house from here before it burned down.”

“Oh?”

“Pity,” Pod prattles on, “it was the largest house in the area, so I’ve heard, and almost complete. Still, he’s beginning to rebuild and I’m certain his new house will be even bigger than the first.”

“Of course,” Brienne murmurs. Mayhaps that river property more than a day’s ride from town is the better choice after all.

“I think this will do nicely,” Alysanne says and Brienne frowns at her. Alysanne’s face is bland but she and Arianne have that mischievous air that tells Brienne they’re up to something.

“This is the last claim this close to town, is it not?” Arianne says.

“Mayhaps a river front…” Brienne’s voice trails away as her sisters turn their identical blue eyes on her.

She knows when she’s lost yet another battle.

She sighs and turns to Pod. “What do I have to do?”

*/*/*/*/*

In the end, it’s surprisingly simple.

They return to town where Brienne completes the paperwork and hands over the minimal registration fee. She tries not to cringe at even that small bite to her slim purse. Still, her signature and the fee are all that is needed.

“I’ll send a copy of the claim to Port Rainer on the next wagon train east,” Pod says, beaming, "or sooner if someone is heading in that direction before then.”

Brienne blinks at him, feeling suddenly adrift. “What am I to do next?” she asks.

Pod shrugs. “Buy some supplies and head out to your homestead.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

*/*/*/*/*

She’s almost not surprised to find Jaime in the general store when she strides in. He seems to be everywhere she goes in town. Even with him as her new neighbour, she should at least manage to avoid him much more easily there than she apparently can here, if for no other reason than he never seems to be on his homestead. She wonders if his poor wife does all the hard work.

He sees her and saunters over, his eyebrow raised and a mocking smile curving his lips. “I half-thought you would have started your return journey to Port Rainer by now, wagon train bedamned.”

Brienne straightens her shoulders. “My sisters and I have discussed it. We’re not leaving.”

Jaime’ eyes gleam even as he shakes his head. “You’re mad. Where will you live?”

“I’ve filed a homestead claim,” she says. “Land around here is free, isn’t it?”

*/*/*/*/*

**Jaime**

Jaime’s momentarily speechless but when Brienne’s defiant glare doesn’t waver, he feels a reluctant respect grow even if he still believes she’s insane. He peers closer and sees beneath the defiance...

“You’re mad,” he says again, slowly, “or desperate,” and sees from the quick flicker of her eyes that he’s right. To his surprise, he feels a wave of empathy. Travelling all this way, two young girls in tow, on the promise of marriage only to be suddenly left to fend for herself through no fault other than her looks, all while she herself—

“How old are you?” he asks, sounding more abrupt and annoyed than he intended.

Her eyes widen then narrow with anger. “I am of age to own a homestead,” she snaps, “and I am the head of my household. I’m within the law!”

He grins at that. “I have no doubt about that but from the looks of you, you’re _barely_ of age. Have you ever worked a farm? Or a ranch?”

He knows the answer even as she draws herself up and raises her chin. That might work on other—shorter—men, but he’s the richest man in Medietos and he didn’t get that way by being easily intimidated by someone’s size. More than that: he’s Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, a transported criminal, and he’s faced down more dangerous people than this woman-child can ever hope to know.

...if she’s lucky…and leaves Medietos as quickly as possible.

“I may not have worked a farm,” she says, haughty and proud, “but I have a strong back and strong arms. I’ll make do.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And your sisters?”

Now there’s a quicksilver flash of consternation and...guilt?...in her eyes.

“They should have stayed in Westeros,” she mutters and he knows she had not intended him to hear her. She shakes her head and, if anything, lifts her chin even higher. “They are ladies, ser, and their hands will never touch a plow.”

He cocks his head and gives her a thoughtful look. “That would be best. They do not seem built for the life of a farmer or farmer’s wife.”

Her shoulders relax ever so slightly as she shakes her head. “I will be sending them back to Westeros as soon as I can.”

Jaime nods. “That would be best. Is there someone there to receive them?”

“We have a stepmother.”

“Good,” he says, careless, then frowns, struck by a sudden thought. “You’ve already filed a claim?”

“Yes.”

His frown deepens. “There’s no more river land near town. You haven’t been boneheaded enough to file a claim on land that’s days away from Brandywine Hill, have you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but no.”

His frown clears then returns. “Then where is your claim? There are no homesteads left that are still within a day’s ride of town. Except for...”

She raises an eyebrow, her beautiful eyes mocking.

He doesn’t know if he should laugh or groan.

She tilts her head in an almost regal nod. “I understand we are now neighbours,” she says and for the first time since he’s met her, she smiles.

*/*/*/*/*


	4. Chapter 4

**Jaime**

Once Jaime gets over his initial shock, he offers to accompany her to the wagon yards, to her obvious, and his own, more hidden surprise. He stands behind her, arms crossed, gaze steady on Red Ronnet Connington while she extricates her wagon, its contents, and the oxen from his grasp.

“You should confirm the contents of the wagon are intact,” Jaime says as they stride behind Red Ronnet towards the pasture where the oxen are grazing. Jaime’s tone is careless but his voice is pitched loud enough to carry to their companion, whose shoulders visibly stiffen. “I’m not saying Connington isn’t an honest man but this is Medietos, after all. A man’s word may be his bond here, but even the most honest of us can be tempted.”

Brienne gives him a speaking look then jerks a short, quick nod. From the expression on her face, Jaime suspects she had already intended to thoroughly check their belongings. Jaime struggles against a smile.

_Brienne may be a tenderfoot_ , he thinks, _and she has no idea the amount of hard work ahead of her,_ _but she’s obviously not stupid._

Jaime leans against the wagon wheel and silently watches Connington while Brienne checks the interior of the wagon.

She finally clambers out, saying, “Everything is here although our belongings have been searched.” She turns her pretty blue eyes on Connington, turning her back to Jaime. “What were you hoping to find?”

Jaime peers around Brienne’s broad shoulders to see Connington’s sneer. “The quality of the goods you chose for your bride price is as lacking you.”

“I bought what was available.”

“What, exactly, are these goods?” Jaime asks.

“Is that any of your business, Lannister?” Ronnet snaps.

Brienne stills, the muscles in her neck and shoulders bunching and unbunching, and Jaime knows she’s recognized the name. To her credit, however, she says nothing.

She doesn’t look at him, either.

Jaime returns his attention to Connington. “Just curious,” he says with a shrug. “You seem to desperately want these goods even if you no longer want the bride who goes along with them.”

Brienne shoots him a glare over her shoulder before returning her attention to Connington.

She says, “The goods are innocuous enough. A pot-bellied stove, bolts of linen and cotton cloth, seeds, pots, and pans.”

Now it’s Connington’s turn for blood to creep up his neck and into his cheeks.

“You did buy the seeds?” he says.

“I told you I bought everything you requested.”

Connington uneasily shifts his weight from one foot to the other and Jaime knows the man is dying to ask Brienne where she hid them but he glances at Jaime again and holds his tongue.

Jaime coughs and says, “I believe Lady Margaery will buy the seeds from you for a good price, Brienne.” He gives Connington a wide, toothy smile. “I’m just as sure Lady Margaery will be more than happy to sell their harvest to you in her turn.”

Brienne cocks her head to one side. “I suspected as much,” she says.

_Tenderfoot, not stupid_ , Jaime thinks and this time bites back a chuckle.

Ronnet’s face tightens with rage. “Take your things and go,” he spits then stomps away.

Jaime and Brienne silently watch him leave then, “Lannister?” she says, her voice faint.

“Yes.”

She slowly turns. “Kingslayer.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m amazed you recognize the name. I understand no one talks about me anymore in the Old Country. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“You killed your king!”

“Aye.”

“And committed incest with your own sister!”

“I doubt it would be considered incest if she were someone else’s sister, so yes. I would like to point out she committed incest, too, yet she’s Queen.” _Unhappily_ , he thinks, _fucking that fat jackass while she dreams of me._

“You should have been executed,” Brienne says, her voice flat. “You broke your oath.”

Jaime laughs. “Should have, could have, would have. You speak as if you knew the man. The Mad King. You would have been what?” He rakes his eyes over her. “All of five at most when Robert’s Rebellion ended?”

“He was your _King_! You swore an oath to serve and protect him!”

“At what cost?” Jaime shakes his head. “In Medietos, our pasts in the Old Country are almost as ancient as the Second Battle for the Dawn. I was tried and sentenced, transported halfway round the world to live or die as the gods saw fit. If you think this land is harsh now, you should have seen it seventeen years ago! Tell me, what does Good King Robert do with his prisoners since he’s not been able to send them here these last five years?”

Brienne hesitates, mouth opening and closing. “Executions are carried out swiftly,” she finally says.

Jaime nods. “Of course. It must save many a dragon in the royal purse. Well, as you find your footing in this brave new world of ours, Tenny, and you get to know the stories of my fellow convicts, ask yourself if execution should have been the answer for _all_ of us.”

Brienne lifts her chin and glares. “You are the only one I’m concerned with now, Ser.”

Jaime laughs. “ _Ser?_ No one has called me Ser since I was put on that damned ship and transported here. I once willingly gave up my titles and my claim to Casterly Rock but ‘ser’ was ripped from my shoulders along with my white cloak. The only title remaining to me, it seems, is Kingslayer.” He shrugs. “So be it. If Kingslayer is the only title left to me, mayhaps I should take Tyrion’s advice and carry it with pride not shame.”

Jaime laughs again at the shocked expression on Brienne’s face. “We’re in Medietos now, Tenny. We make our own rules.”

He straightens and saunters past her, saying, “Now, if you’re going to get out to your homestead tonight, we best leave within the next hour.”

“We?”

Jaime pushes back the brim of his hat and peers up at the sky. “The sun will be gone in three hours.” He looks at her and raises an eyebrow. “Think you can find your way in the dark?”

*/*/*/*/*

**Brienne**

As much as she hates to admit it, the vexing man is right: if they want to get to their homestead tonight, ‘tis better to travel with their nearest neighbour than to stumble about in the dark. Although they could stop half-way there if she can find a spring so she can water the oxen...

“I need to sell those seeds and buy a plow,” she mutters.

Jaime grins. “Then let’s put your oxen in their traces and go to Lady Margaery’s.”

*/*/*/*/*

Lady Margaery is younger than Brienne expected, possibly even younger than Brienne. A lovely woman, obviously highborn, with long, wavy brown hair, her large brown eyes are warm albeit thoughtfully assessing.

“I heard a mail order bride had arrived in town,” Lady Margaery says after a moment.

Brienne feels the heat creep into her cheeks as she nods.

“With two children in tow?”

Brienne’s face flames even more. “Yes.”

Lady Margaery smiles. “That’s wonderful,” she says. “What few children we have in Brandywine Hill are still in their cradles.”

For some reason, that surprises Brienne. “There are other children here?” she asks then wishes she could bite her tongue out as both Jaime and Lady Margaery laugh.

“Convicts were transported to Medietos for well over two hundred years,” Jaime says, “men, women, and children, all. Naturally, some of those who survived long enough had children.”

“Most of the First Families still live in Port Rainer,” Lady Margaery says, “where their ancestors made landfall and held on to survival with the tips of their fingers. Still, you have reason to be surprised. There has always been a scarcity of women here, and this land is unforgiving. Do you know the maesters think we lost nine out of every ten persons transported here during the first hundred years?” She smiles. “But enough gossip. You’re here for a reason.”

Brienne nods and explains about the seeds she’s brought to her in the sack in her hand.

Lady Margaery examines the contents with a critical eye. “Decent enough quality,” she finally says, “and should grow well enough here.” She then names a price that is twice what Brienne paid.

_This plus what’s left in my purse will hopefully be enough for supplies and a plow_ , she thinks as Lady Margaery counts out the coins and hands them to her.

“Thank you,” Brienne says.

Lady Margaery smiles. “No, thank _you_. These will help add to my own coffers and the coffers of my ladies, if we can coax the seeds to grow.” She cocks her head and thoughtfully considers her. “Mayhaps…”

“No,” Jaime says, his tone sharp with warning.

Lady Margaery glances at him and laughs. “No, of course not, Jaime, but I can always use a steady supply of moon tea.”

Brienne’s face flames again even as she frowns, considering the offer.

“’Tis too late in the season for a harvest before the snow flies,” Lady Margaery says, “but if you make it through the winter, we may be able to come to an arrangement.”

Brienne nods. “Thank you.”

Lady Margaery smiles. “There are too few women in Brandywine Hill, Brienne. We needs must look out for each other.”

*/*/*/*/*

Brienne settles their bill at the tavern then she takes her sisters and Jaime to the only general store in town.

The store owner has a face almost swallowed by his jowls, a bald head, a flat nose, and what seems to be a permanent scowl. Even Alysanne and Arianne are subdued beneath his glower.

Brienne lifts her chin and begins to haggle over the purchase of food stuffs, and the tools, supplies, and farming equipment she needs to begin homesteading and to build a cabin in time for winter.

“We won’t have any plows in town for another two weeks,” the surly man says, raking his eyes over her with cold insolence. The price made Brienne quail but if she’s going to hold on to the homestead, she needs a plow even more than she needs a cabin.

She jerks a nod. “I’ll return to town then,” she says, “and I will pay you when I receive it.”

The proprietor’s eyes get, if anything, even colder. “If you’re still here by then,” he growls. He glances at Alysanne and Arianne and shakes his bald head. “If you’re even still alive by then.”

His words send a chill through Brienne but she keeps her face expressionless.

Jaime says, “Stop trying to scare them, Boros. They’re made of sterner stuff than that.”

Brienne slides him a surprised glance but quickly looks away again. _He’s the Kingslayer_ , she tells herself. _It matters naught what he thinks of us._

*/*/*/*/*

It takes longer than expected to finish haggling with Boros and Brienne glances at the sun with a worried frown.

Jaime chuckles and Brienne turns her scowl on him.

He grins. “Yes, it’ll be dark before we’re even half-way there. You can spend the night at my place and get to your homestead in the morning.” 

He takes in the expression on her face and his grin widens. 

“You can turn the oxen out into the pasture with my horses and be on your way at first light, if that’s your wish.” He pushes his hat back on his head and for a moment, she’s distracted by the clean, sharp lines of his cheeks and jaw. “You can stay in the cabin and bar the door, if that makes you feel better.”

She blinks and her gaze flies to his and she blushes.

“Thank you,” she says grudgingly, and he laughs.

*/*/*/*/*

The crescent moon is giving what little light it can when they arrive at Jaime’ homestead. Arianne and Alysanne crane their necks, curiously looking at what few things things they can make out in the darkness. Brienne is grateful for the darkness as it hopefully hides her sisters’ unbridled curiosity from Jaime, who is riding his horse beside them.

Still, even she finds herself looking with interest at the pile of burnt rubble looming in the semi-darkness. From the looks of it—

“My first house,” Jaime says without looking at any of them, then spurs his horse into a trot to get ahead of the oxen. He leads them to a pitiful shack beside the barn where he guides them to a halt.

He dismounts and wraps his horse’s reins around a hitching post before he strolls towards them. “The cabin may not look like much, but it’s clean,” he says. “The bed may be a bit of a tight squeeze for three, but it’s comfortable enough.”

Brienne finds herself unable to look away from him, his eyes dark pools, his face all clean lines and sharp angles in the shadows cast by the moon’s light. She clears her throat. “There’s no need to give up your own bed for us,” she says. “We’ll sleep in the wagon.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The wagon is not very secure.”

“I’m a light sleeper,” she says, “and even stronger than I look.”

He grins. “Noted.”

*/*/*/*/*

Brienne and her sisters cook supper for Jaime to thank him for giving them a place to rest and for guiding them through the darkness this close to their homestead.

The meal is more enjoyable than Brienne expects. Jaime is surprisingly charming and patient with the girls and when he finally excuses himself to go to his shack and sleep, Alysanne and Arianne are obviously and utterly charmed by him, and talk about him incessantly as they ready themselves and get into their own beds.

As the girls’ chatter finally fades into sleep, Brienne, alone in the dark quiet of their canvas-covered wagon, admits that, incestuous Kingslayer or no, she’s charmed, too.

…not that it matters.

_He may be our closest neighbour_ , she tells herself as she rolls over onto her side, _but I know who he is now. He cannot be trusted._

She closes her eyes and resolutely pushes all thoughts of Jaime out of her head.

*/*/*/*/*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Some Jaime/Cersei although it's mostly pining. Jaime's a little slow.

**Jaime**

Jaime wakes to the sound of voices outside his cabin door: light, childish chatter followed by the slower, deeper tones of their sister. He opens his eyes to see weak sunlight seeping through the slats of the shutters over his empty windows as well as through the chinks between his log walls.

As he does every morning, he reminds himself of how brutally cold the cabin was last winter and the winter before and the winter before that, and that this is the year he finally does more than stuff straw between the logs when the weather gets cold.

He rolls out of bed, stokes the pot-bellied stove into life, and puts the coffee on to boil before he pulls on his jeans and boots. He’s still buttoning his shirt when he opens the door and steps out into the morning sun.

“Going to be another hot day,” he calls to the three women—well, two girls and one woman—who have already put the oxen in their traces and are now standing behind the wagon staring at him as if they’ve never seen him before. His fingers pause on the buttons of his shirt as he takes in their identical expressions of guilt on their faces. They glance at the burnt out remnants of his house then shift uncomfortably beneath his steady gaze.

“It’s fine,” he says as he finishes buttoning his shirt, “I have nothing to hide.” _Except the letters_ , he thinks, _and those are now carefully stored in the root cellar until you’re gone._

“The house was very large,” one of the girls says. Jaime is almost certain it’s Arianne. He studies them, suddenly yearning for Cersei, not as his lover but simply as his own sister and twin. He suddenly remembers those innocent days when he and Cersei looked so much alike, they could switch places and fool everyone. He wonders if these girls still play such games with those who don’t know them well. It’s unlikely they could trick their sister for long because while they’re very similar in looks, they’re not quite identical, with one’s hair a slightly darker shade of blonde while the other’s eyes are a slightly darker blue. Neither of the twins match their sister’s eyes in terms of beauty, though.

“Jaime?” Brienne snaps, her voice sharp and disapproving.

Jaime turns his attention from the twins to Brienne to find those pretty eyes narrowed with suspicion as they dart from him to her sisters and back again. Her concern would be amusing if it wasn’t exactly what was needed in Medietos. In the Old World, too, truth be told.

He returns his gaze to he-believes-it’s-Arianne, and says, “Yes, the house was very large.”

“What happened?”

“Arianne,” Brienne says, her ire now turned on her sister.

Jaime silently congratulates himself on correctly identifying which twin is which then says, “There was a fire.”

Alysanne rolls her eyes. “We can see that. What caused it?”

Jaime’s amusement is wiped away in an instant. “A fire,” he says, and his tone quells the twins’ curiosity where their sister’s could not. They both duck their heads and mumble apologies and he instantly regrets putting such crestfallen looks on their faces.

He forces himself to smile. “It was a long time ago,” he says, “and no longer matters.” He claps his hands together. “Let us eat breakfast and then I’ll guide you to your homestead.”

“We can find it from here,” Brienne says, “and we’ve already eaten.”

This seems to be news to her sisters, judging from the surprise on their faces before they quickly smooth their features into smiles as they vigorously nod in agreement.

Jaime raises an eyebrow. “You broke your fast without waiting for me?”

Brienne flushes. “We intended to be gone at first light, before you awoke.” She stares at him then mutters, “You have done too much already.”

Jaime ponders how he should interpret those words, then, “At least have some coffee before you go.”

Brienne scowls and shakes her head.

Jaime grins. “You can take it with you, if you prefer.”

“I—I do not like it,” Brienne says.

“‘Tis not for everyone, true.” Coffee is still a rare treat, transported in cargo ships from the small settlements far to the south to Port Rainer, then shipped on wagon train to Brandywine Hill. It’s even rarer in the Old Country. “Tea is much more expensive here since we have to import it from Westeros, and the gods know the King on the Iron Throne forces us to pay dearly for it. Still, I suppose he must refill his coffers somehow. Mayhaps someday we’ll find a way to grow our own.”

Brienne blinks but remains silent. The moment stretches out, and Jaime waits, with ever-growing amusement, to see how long it will take her to say something—anything--to break the stalemate.

“Well, I would like some coffee,” Arianne says, startling them both.

“As would I,” Alysanne adds.

Jaime turns to them and smiles. “I have no doubt you will toss it out once you’re far enough away.”

“No,” Brienne says, “they do like it.”

Jaime’s smile widens into a grin. “Then I will look forward to soon sharing coffee with you in your own cabin.” He gestures towards his cabin door. “The pot is on the stove, brewing.”

The girls scramble into the wagon and out again, metal cups in hand. They scurry towards the cabin and Jaime watches from beside Brienne as they disappear through the door.

“Do they truly like coffee?” he asks idly.

She sighs. “Truly.”

“And you truly don’t?”

She blushes and remains silent, and now Jaime does laugh. She glares as the girls exit the cabin, far more slowly than they entered it, cups held carefully in their hands.

They thank him prettily, praise his skill at making the bitter brew, then settle into the back of the wagon, their legs dangling over the tailgate.

Jaime walks up to the wagon’s driver’s box, where Brienne is sitting, traces and long whip in hand.

“If you go cross-country, you’ll be fine,” he says, gesturing towards the east where Brienne’s homestead awaits them. “The land is solid enough. There are no sand dunes or dust sinks to catch the wagon.”

She jerks a nod then says, grudgingly, “Thank you. For...everything.”

Jaime grins and takes a step away from the wagon.

“Don’t thank me yet, Tenny. Thank me next summer after you’ve made it through a full year.”

*/*/*/*/*

**Brienne**

Brienne guides the oxen towards the pond they had visited the previous day while her sisters sip their coffees and chatter on about what to do first once they arrive at their destination.

It takes less than an hour to arrive at the pond. Brienne pulls the oxen to a halt then sits and stares at the water and the spindly trees and blinks back a rush of hot tears. She’s hard-pressed to know if they come from relief or fear.

Her sisters have no such qualms. They tumble from the wagon and race to the edge of the pond, where they quarrel for a moment about the depth of it and then, before Brienne has finished tethering the oxen, they’ve stripped to their small-clothes and are splashing in the water.

She strides to the edge and calls, “How deep is it?”

Alysanne takes a deep breath then goes beneath the surface, her right arm pointed to the sky. She disappears entirely but quickly bobs back to the surface, flinging water from her face.

“Just over my fingertips,” she says. “Come for a swim, Brienne.”

Brienne can’t help but smile as she watches them. Their future is still uncertain and she needs must build a sturdier shelter than the wagon can provide, fences so they can pasture their oxen, and a barn, all before winter. But her sisters are laughing, the sun is already hot on her shoulders, and this land is _hers_ , to do with as she pleases.

She shakes her head and can’t help but smile as she, too, strips to her small-clothes. Her sisters’ joyous play warms her even more than the sun as she joins them in the pond.

*/*/*/*/*

The days pass in a haze of dust, heat, sun, and hard work. Brienne tasks her sisters with cooking and mending until she finishes digging a small patch of ground for a late-season garden. Then, while she chops down trees and uses the oxen to drag the logs back to the location of their cabin, her sisters plant radishes and beets, cabbage and lettuce and beans. She hopes they will have enough of a growing season left to harvest enough vegetables to last the winter with some left to go to seed for the spring.

Once the garden is planted, Brienne sends Arianne and Alysanne off to explore the one square mile of land they now call home. They return to tell her about the rabbits they’ve seen, the size of the trees within their borders, and the many different wildflowers currently blooming in the unbroken grasslands. But they’ve seen nothing larger nor more dangerous than the rabbits, and Brienne isn’t certain if she’s relieved or disappointed. She doesn’t know how far she may need to roam for a successful hunt and she doesn’t want to leave the girls alone for too long.

Arianne and Alysanne are on another such ramble and Brienne is busy debarking the next set of logs for the cabin when she hears horse’s hooves clopping against the grass.

Her heart jumps into her throat as she turns to look but it plummets again when she sees an unfamiliar young man on a dappled horse, his brown hair tickling the collar of his shirt.

“Hello,” he calls as he gets closer. His grin is wide, relaxed, and guileless. “I’m Jos. Jos Peckledon. My wife and I have the homestead south of you.”

Brienne relaxes slightly and gives him an austere nod. “Hello,” she says.

“It’s nice to have another neighbour, and a woman at that.”

“Oh?”

Jos’ grin is proud. “Pia just had a baby—a boy—and she hasn’t been able to get to town in the two months since the birth.” He chuckles. “She’s finding naught but my company and a squalling babe to be tedious at times.”

Brienne thoughtfully considers the young man. He appears to be about her age or a little younger and she wonders if he was transported or born here. Still, he looks harmless enough even if she’s not quite certain she believes his story.

Jos’ grin fades and he turns his attention to the beginnings of the log cabin behind her.

“You’re making good progress,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“Have you dug your root cellar yet?”

She frowns. “No. We’re too late in the season for much more than the most bare of harvests. We can use the wagon for storage if need be.”

“Not just for storage but for the summer storms.”

Brienne’s eyes widen. “Summer storms?”

Jos nods. “We’ve had a good summer so far but we usually get a storm or two where the winds are so strong, the air itself becomes a solid, whirling monster that nothing can withstand. That’s when you hide in the root cellar and pray your cabin and animals are still there when you emerge.”

Brienne stares unblinking at him and wishes—not for the first time—that she had mingled more with the men in their wagon train on the long journey west.

Jos doesn’t seem to notice her silence as he continues. “We’ve put ours beneath our cabin. That way, if we have enough time, we can throw our most precious belongings into it as well as ourselves.”

“I...thank you,” she says. “I had not heard about these summer storms.”

Jos beams. “Well, I wanted to ride over and greet you properly. We have the four sections south of you but our home quarter is only three miles from here. We’ll welcome you whenever you wish to visit.”

Brienne’s still not certain if she trusts this friendly young man but she tilts her head in acknowledgement and wonders if she’s supposed to offer him refreshments before sending him on his way. Just like at Jaime’s homestead, she stands in awkward silence, cudgelling her brain for something to say.

Jos saves her by turning his horse’s head to the west. “It was nice meeting you,” he says then pauses, frowning. “What’s your name?”

She flushes. “Brienne,” she says. “Brienne Tarth.”

Jos grins. “Nice to meet you, Brienne.” Then he lifts his hand in farewell and kicks his horse into a trot, heading off in the direction of Jaime’s homestead.

Brienne watches him go with rather glum bemusement and wonders what, exactly, he’s going to say to Jaime about her. Then she shakes her head.

_Foolish woman_ , she thinks. _They won’t waste any time on you at all._

*/*/*/*/*

**Jaime**

Jaime listens with half-an-ear to the conversation behind him in the tavern. He’s nursing a beer that’s more yeast than brew but it’s cold and somewhat wet and he’s spent the last three weeks on his homestead listening to a steady stream of various neighbours speculate about the tenderfoots in their midst. 

_And waiting,_ he thinks, then drowns that fleeting thought with another gulp of beer.

Most of those neighbours have caught only glimpses of the twins but they have all met and talked with Brienne—if her sparse conversation can be called ‘talking’. As the various men sat at his table or in his barn, or perched on his hitching post in the evening sun, cool beer or whiskey in hand, mulling over every moment and every word, there was one common thread between them all: in a land where survival can be very much dependent upon how quickly neighbours can render aid, Brienne’s cold, aloof treatment of them is baffling.

And naturally, they come to him to ask why.

She’s a woman alone, he tells the ones he trusts, responsible for two young girls in a country filled with men starved of women. She’s wise to be cautious.

To those he doesn’t trust, he tells them she and her sisters are crack shots and one of them is always awake.

Even here, however, Jaime can’t escape gossip about Brienne and her sisters.

“Bigger than any man I’ve even seen, other than the Mountain.”

That’s Maron Greyjoy, sounding more speculative than afraid. His homestead is south of Brandywine Hill, next to his brother’s. If either or both of the brothers had travelled all the way to Brienne’s homestead, they didn’t bother to stop at Jaime’s. Not a surprise. The Greyjoy Rebellion happened long after Jaime had been transported to Medietos but the brothers still resent the aftermath of it even ten years on.

“Uglier than any man I’ve seen, too,” says Big Belly Ben.

“You haven’t looked in a mirror in a while then, have you?” Wenda replies and Jaime can hear her eyes rolling as she says the words. His chuckles blend in with the roar of laughter that greets her words.

“What do you think, Lannister?” Maron’s brother, Rodrik, calls.

Jaime swivels on his barstool so he can look his neighbours in the eyes. “I have no opinion one way or the other about the lady,” he says with a careless shrug. He leans back, resting an elbow on the bar as he lifts his almost empty beer mug to his lips.

“Oh, lady, now is she?” Big Belly Ben jeers. “Another highborn like yourself, m’lord?”

Jaime doesn’t rise to the bait. He made his peace with the survivors of the Kingswood Brotherhood long ago. He says, “She came here expecting marriage and is making the best of the situation she’s now trapped in. Just like we all did.”

“Only she can go back to the Old Country whenever she wants,” Rodrik says, his words cold and bitter.

Jaime’s gaze is steady on the Greyjoys as he says, “She was not transported, no, but she’s no less trapped here. ‘Tis just the barriers standing in her way are made of money rather than pardons from the King.”

“Bah, who wants to go back to the Old Country anyway?” Wenda says. Jaime remembers her telling him once that she had been known as the White Fawn not only for her elusiveness in the forests of the Riverlands during her time with the Smiling Knight, but for her fair beauty. Jaime still catches glimpses of it at times, hidden now behind her gray hair and wrinkles.

“No one in this tavern,” Big Belly Ben says and Jaime hopes he hides how much his heart leaps at the thought of returning home, of seeing Casterly Rock again. He yearns to see his brother’s face and—of course and always—to see his sister and hold her in his arms once again. Would she taste the same, he wonders. Would she still sigh and melt beneath the same caresses he used to give her so many years ago?

Would she still love him?

He quickly downs his beer and gets to his feet. “I best get moving,” he says, “but let me stand you a round before I go.”

His companions send him off with a chorus of thanks and laughter and good wishes, and he pauses on the tavern’s threshold to stand, squinting, in the mid-afternoon sun. He brushes back his hair and puts his wide-brimmed hat on his head then strolls towards Boros’ general store.

He buys his staples—sugar and salt, flour and oats—and a half-dozen of the hard sugar candies Lady Margaery’s girls make, tied in scraps of brightly coloured cloth and piled in a bowl on the counter, to tempt buyers as they wait for Boros to fill their orders. He shares gossip with others in the store, with Boros, and with those who stop as he’s loading his saddlebags. He pops one of the candies in his mouth before he mounts his horse and turns its head towards the homestead, and idly wonders if Brienne and her sisters would like such treats.

He must make sure to tell them about them the next time he sees them.

Whenever that may be.

*/*/*/*/*

**Brienne**

The sun is hanging low in the west, just above Jaime’s homestead, when Brienne finishes setting the cabin’s latest log into place. She stands back and surveys her handiwork, wiping sweat from her brow. She hears the clop of a horse’s hooves behind her and grits her teeth in irritation. Which nosy neighbour is creeping up on them this time?

She _must_ have met them all by now. Jos and Big Belly Ben and Nimble Dick, who is not to be confused with Fletcher Dick. Oswyn Longneck, Simon Toyne, and the Greyjoy brothers. Wenda and Hildy and Harma Dogshead. The Greyjoys said they travelled from south of Brandywine Hill just to catch a glimpse of her and her sisters, and the cold, hard look in their eyes made her glad the twins happened to be exploring the farthest copse on their land and were not there to catch their attention.

No such luck this time. Her sisters are by the wagon, making the evening meal. She turns to shoo them inside the canvas covering but before she can say a word, her sisters’ faces light up and then they rush to greet their visitor.

She turns, scowling, and her stomach swoops at the sight of Jaime’s laughing face as he pulls his horse to a stop and dismounts, the girls’ voices raised in excited chatter.

Brienne takes several calming breaths before she slowly joins them.

“...they’re sold in Boros’ general store,” she hears Jaime say as Arianne and Alysanne carefully contemplate the bright scraps of cloth balanced in the palm of his hand. “I doubt they’re as good as those you can find in the Old Country, but they’re a pleasant treat all the same.”

“Treat?” Brienne says, her voice sharp.

“Hard sugar candies,” Jaime says. “I always pick up a handful when Boros has some.” He picks one wrapped in a white bit of cloth and offers it to her.

Arianne has already chosen a yellow one while Alysanne takes one wrapped in red, so Brienne reluctantly accepts Jaime’s offering. Jaime slips the rest into his pocket except for one cloaked in blue, which he unwraps and pops into his mouth with every sign of pleasure.

Arianne and Alysanne pepper Jaime with questions, as if they have not seen him in months instead of mere weeks. It’s not until he gently tells them the food they’re making seems to be burning that they leave his side.

Jaime strolls over to Brienne and they silently watch her sisters’ efforts to salvage what they can of their meal.

“They seem to be adjusting well,” Jaime murmurs.

“They do not complain,” Brienne replies.

Jaime gives her a thoughtful look, and Brienne is suddenly very conscious of her sweat-stained shirt and dusty trousers. “Do they help you build the cabin?”

Brienne bristles. “Of course not!”

Jaime raises an eyebrow. “Why not? I’m sure you could use their help when lifting the logs into place.”

“They’re ladies, ser. Such work is not for them.”

He laughs. “In the Old Country that may be true but here they’ll need to turn their hand to whatever needs doing else they won’t last here long.”

“Good. That is my intent.”

“That may well be but if you won’t accept help from your sisters then how about your neighbours? Your cabin would be built by now if you offered a celebration as payment.”

“A celebration?”

“A meal and mead, mayhaps music and dancing.” Jaime grins at her. “You three would be the belles of the ball.”

Brienne flushes. “My sisters are children, ser, and I will not parade them about as if they’re prizes to be won!”

“That’s not—”

“Enough! I and especially my sisters do not need help from the likes of the men that have flocked here these last few weeks! And that includes _you_!”

Jaime’s half-smile is immediately wiped away as he straightens. “Then I wish you luck in your endeavours,” is all he says.

Brienne gives him a narrow-eyed, suspicious look, wondering if she heard a note of mockery or if she imagined it. His face is bland but his eyes are blazing as he meets her gaze.

“Will you stay for supper, Jaime?” Alysanne says and they both start and turn to look at her.

“It still tastes good despite our mishap,” Arianne adds.

Jaime slides a glance at Brienne as he shakes his head. “I left a stew on my own stove at home that I must get to else it will be wasted. In winter, we can use the snowbanks to store it overnight but that’s not possible in the summer. Mayhaps next time.”

Arianne and Alysanne’s pleas fall on deaf ears although in recompense, he gifts them the rest of the candies then he mounts his horse and touches the brim of his hat in farewell before galloping away. Arianne and Alysanne stare after him but Brienne turns her back with a determined air, refusing to dwell on her lingering guilt about the look on his face after her harsh words.

_I’ve done the right thing,_ she thinks. _‘Tis better he knows that my sisters are not for the likes of him nor any of the others in this godsforsaken country._

The sooner everyone understands that, the better.

*/*/*/*/*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Sorry for the delay in updating. Lots of things going on in off-line life, some more stressful than others, and those have played havoc with my writing/posting schedule. Nothing horrendously bad, just...lots of demands on my time. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Sorry for the long wait for this update. My muses and I are currently having a _conversation_ and I'm beginning to suspect I might be the problem - LOL.

**Brienne**

Brienne gets her wish. The visits from gawking citizens increase for a few weeks after she returns to town to purchase the promised plow from Boros but finally trickle away to nothing as the days shorten and crops ripen in the fields.

Jos brings his wife Pia once, their babe tucked safely in a basket in the wagon behind them. Pia is older than Brienne expects, with at least a decade on her husband, but they look at each other and their son with love shining from their eyes and Brienne can’t help a sharp pang of envy at the sight.

Thankfully, the cabin, while still crude, is finished, and Alysanne delights in playing hostess while Arianne delights in playing with the babe, and they both chatter non-stop with their visitors. Brienne envies their ease and trust even as she cannot bring herself to let her guard down, even with a couple who seem to have eyes only for each other and not her sisters. She feels a stab of guilt as she watches her sisters wave goodbye to their visitors.

_It’s for the best,_ she tells herself. _Keeping our distance will make it easier when I send them home._

*/*/*/*/*

The one neighbour she can’t seem to discourage, no matter how hard she tries, is Jaime. He appears to relish her scowls whenever he rides up to their cabin, with his insufferable grace and mocking smirk. He sometimes offers them sweets from Boros’ general store, sometimes foodstuffs pressed upon him by Lady Margaery’s girls or another of the ladies in the settlement. Too much for himself, he says with a smug grin in her direction, and he prefers to share his bounty rather than let anything go to waste.

Brienne suspects, however, that he visits solely because he enjoys annoying her. The vexing man never seems to take the hint when she is less than welcoming and indeed seems to take great pleasure in watching her attempts to keep a civil tongue in her head. Although mayhaps he visits because her sisters are always overjoyed to see him and press him to linger even when Brienne would rather send him on his way.

Even Jaime’s visits dwindle, however, when harvest begins in earnest. Brienne sometimes hears the faint shouts and laughter of men drifting on the crisp breeze mixed with the lowing of cattle, and the rattle of iron and steel as her neighbours come together to gather the harvest and butcher their animals. Jaime invites Brienne and her sisters to join them when the harvesters arrive on his homestead, offering them a share of the crops and meat if they work in the fields or cook for them. She refuses. She would crowd out all the other women around a cook stove and she’s not willing to let her sisters out of her sight and even less willing to put them to work in the fields beside her. She knows she’s made the right decision but she still struggles to hide her guilt as her sisters mope the entire time the harvesters are on Jaime’s homestead, shooting her resentful looks when the faint sound of music reaches them.

*/*/*/*/*

The crops are off the fields and there’s frost on the ground each morning when Brienne reluctantly decides she needs must venture to Brandywine Hill to sell two of their oxen. She needs to lay in stores for the winter and the oxen should bring enough coin to do so. She’s not certain she completely believes the stories their visitors have shared about winter in Medietos, but she would prefer to be prepared in case the stories are true. She will need to be gone the entire day and she fears leaving her sisters alone for that long.

She worries at the problem for several days before finally, in desperation, she turns to Jaime.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime pushes his hat back on his head and gives her a quizzical look.

“You want me to take on the role of nanny?” The confused horror on his face would be amusing if Brienne weren’t so worried.

“They’re old enough to be alone but the Greyjoys were sniffing about again a few weeks ago. I’m concerned they will take advantage of my absence if they see me in town.”

“Take the girls with you,” Jaime says. “When was the last time they were in town? I’m sure they would like to see what Boros has on offer for themselves.”

Brienne shakes her head. “Jos told me the auction lasts all day and while I needs must have the oxen there in the morning, they are usually the last to be sold. I can’t risk the girls roaming Brandywine Hill alone for that long.”

Jaime watches her, a puzzled frown on his face. “They’ll be fine,” he says mildly. “It’s not like there are so many young girls around that no one would recognize them.”

Brienne glares. “That’s the issue.”

Jaime opens his mouth then closes it again with a shake of his head. “What if I were planning on attending the auction as well?”

“You were there just last week!”

Jaime grins. “I’m flattered you keep such close tabs on my movements, considering you never leave your homestead.”

“Why leave when everyone seems determined to come to me?”

That makes him laugh. “All right.”

“All right? All right what?”

“All right, I’m caught. I wasn’t planning on attending the auction. And all right, Arianne and Alysanne can spend the day helping me out on my homestead.”

Brienne is startled. “Oh. I thought―”

“I can’t cool my heels at your homestead all day, Brienne.” He glances at his cabin and shrugs. “The girls can help me caulk the cabin. I need to prepare it for winter anyway.” He looks back at Brienne and smirks. “No hard labour. I promise.”

*/*/*/*/*

**Jaime**

Jaime stands, arms crossed, while Arianne and Alysanne wave Brienne on her way. The wagon no longer has its billowing, arched canvas covering and the two oxen tied to the back of it look rather forlorn. _Poor beasts_ , Jaime thinks, _destined for naught but hard labour and then the butcher’s block. Thank the gods for them, else we’d never be able to make this land a home._

Alysanne heaves a sigh before she turns to Jaime with a determined gleam in her eyes. “What would you like us to do?”

“Well, I told Brienne we would caulk the cabin.” He stares, expressionless, for a long moment, then grins. “What would _you_ like to do?”

Their faces light up and Alysanne says, “Teach us how to shoot.”

Jaime’s startled. He expected they would want to go riding. He had half-planned to take them to his northwest section, to the river where he pastures his and his neighbours cattle and horses from spring until fall. His animals are the only ones left now and he’ll need to move them to his home quarter before the snow flies but he thought the girls might enjoy seeing this year’s foals and calves, and the yearlings that will be ready for sale in the spring. But _this_?

“Teach you to _shoot_?”

Alysanne and Arianne exchange a glance and Alysanne vigorously nods. Arianne, Jaime notices, seems less enthusiastic but her jaw has a set to it that is almost as determined as her eldest sister’s.

Jaime pushes his hat back then shakes his head. “I don’t understand. Hasn’t Brienne taken you hunting? I know I’ve heard the rifle on more than one occasion.”`

“That’s only Brienne. She says ladies don’t hunt.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow but knows better than to say anything. The twins may be asking him for help because their sister is pig-stubborn but the looks in their eyes warn him they won’t take kindly to any jokes at Brienne’s expense.

“Won’t she be angry if she realizes you’ve gone behind her back?”

“Yes,” Arianne says, “but it’ll be too late.”

“Just like it was too late when we surprised her on the ship,” Alysanne adds.

Jaime files that little tidbit away for further exploration. “And if I say no?”

Alysanne and Arianne consider him with expressions that are far too calculating for girls so young. “You won’t.”

Jaime laughs. “No. I won’t.”

*/*/*/*/*

They spend the next several hours learning about gun safety, and how to clean and load Jaime’s single-shot rifles.

“Why do you have so many guns?” Alysanne asks as he finally leads them to the copse west of his cabin where the girls can fire the guns for the first time.

_Because every one came from the hand of a dead man_ , Jaime thinks and wonders how much he should tell them. He settles for half the truth. “I’m not certain if you heard but we had some trouble in Medietos a few years ago.”

Arianne frowns. “What kind of trouble?”

“We wanted independence. King Robert didn’t agree, at least not at first.” Jaime grins. “The skirmishes didn’t last long. It’s far too difficult to send soldiers overseas and none of the kings before him bothered to establish a standing army here.”

“Why not?”

“Medietos was unpopulated except for wild animals that are bigger and more dangerous than anything in Westeros. No sign of human life anywhere although there are mounds made of crystal in the north, so I’m told. Those who have explored them swear they were once buildings but I have yet to see any for myself. Regardless, it took the disappearance of three expeditions before the King of the day decided this place was too dangerous for settlement but the perfect death sentence for prisoners.”

He frowns. “For most of the first prisoners, it was. Those who survived, well, by the time any King thought to establish a standing army here, it was far too late. We were armed, knew this land and its secrets, and were living by our own rules. King Robert tried to land his army on our shores when we petitioned for independence.” He grins. “He was more than willing to sign a treaty after we repeatedly sent his army scurrying back to Westeros and his ships to the bottom of the ocean, including his own. He narrowly escaped with his life.” _And I wouldn’t still be here if he had drowned._ “Establishing a wardenship over Medietos would be too expensive for King Robert’s coffers and we easily convinced him there’s more gold to be made through trade.” He looks at them and smiles. “And now we’re accepting immigrants on our terms, not his.”

Alysanne says, “Yet this place is not truly safe, is it?”

Jaime shrugs. “No place is truly safe, however, we’re more likely to be killed by the country itself than our countrymen and women.”

Arianne looks thoughtful. “I recall Roelle saying something similar to one of her visiting lords, just before she convinced Brienne to respond to Ronnet’s ad in the newspaper.”

“Roelle?”

“Our stepmother,” Alysanne says with a decidedly sour tone and Jaime bites back a laugh even as he files yet another tidbit of information away for later consideration.

Not that he spends much of his time thinking about the Tarth sisters, of course. It’s just that they’re his closest neighbours, they’re tenderfoots, and winter is coming.

*/*/*/*/*

**Brienne**

The day isn’t as awkward as Brienne had feared, mayhaps because she recognizes many of the men at the auction yards. She doesn’t blame them for their austere greetings, but greet her they do, including the Greyjoy brothers though she cannot bring herself to trust the looks in their eyes.

Ronnet only sneers and turns his back.

Brandywine Hill is bustling, busier than Brienne expects. As she registers her oxen at the auction yard, she learns a wagon train arrived the previous night, heading east to Port Rainer. Tormund Giantsbane is the wagon master and Brienne greets him with true pleasure and takes the opportunity to press a hastily penned letter to Roelle into his hands before she changes her mind. Better yet, when Brienne’s oxen are finally put on the auction block late that afternoon, the animals are snapped up immediately and for a much higher price than she dared hope.

It’s enough to pay for flour, corn meal, and oatmeal, dried beans, potatoes, and onions, coffee, sugar and salt. There’s even enough to purchase several bolts of printed cotton so the girls can sew new dresses for themselves with enough left over to make over the garments they already own. Besides keeping them busy over the winter months, Alysanne and Arianne are growing out of their clothes at an alarming rate. Brienne would keep them children forever if she could, but they’re twelve, almost thirteen, and their moon’s blood will soon be upon them. Brienne knows she has two years, mayhaps three, to return them to Westeros. Any older, and the highborn of Westeros will never believe they’re maids and they will never make proper matches.

As she loads the wagon, she sends a prayer to the Mother that people will treat her sisters more kindly than they treated her, and to the Crone for Roelle to agree to pay for Arianne and Alysanne’s return to Westeros, as she begged in the letter she entrusted to Tormund’s care.

“Brienne!”

Brienne turns to see Pod, grinning and waving as he approaches her.

“Pod,” she says with a smile.

He asks her about her homesteading, her sisters, and if she’s prepared for the coming winter. She answers him guardedly. While she likes Pod, she doesn’t know how much his tongue wags.

They managed to preserve most of their garden’s harvest, with enough gone to seed to hopefully sprout again in the spring. Their supply of dried meat has been supplemented with hares as well as the bison and antifers they hunted as they made their way to Brandywine Hill. Brienne is confident she has enough to get them through the winter if they’re careful but she also knows how gossip can distort fact into dire fiction so she shares little of the details with Pod.

He doesn’t seem to notice any reticence on her part, however, and they chat amiably enough until Lady Margaery greets her with what seems to be a genuine smile as she strolls towards Boros’ store with several of her girls beside her. Pod blushes a bright red, stutters an excuse, and makes his escape, leaving the women alone. Margaery introduces her companions, Alla, Elinor, and Megga. They exchange pleasantries and the girls exclaim over the bolts of cotton Brienne has chosen. Brienne finds herself inordinately pleased that Lady Margaery and her companions approve of her choices since they themselves are dressed in fetching gowns that Brienne knows would have been envied even in Westeros.

Lady Margaery and her girls take their leave with charming smiles and continue on into the general store while Brienne finishes loading the wagon. As she untethers the oxen, she wonders why and how Lady Margaery ended up in Westeros. She wonders if she’ll be in Medietos long enough to learn the story.

The sun is already dipping below the horizon as Brienne, pleased with her day, points the oxen towards the northwest. She only hopes her sisters are as satisfied with their day as she is with hers.

*/*/*/*/*

**Jaime**

Jaime and the girls troop back to the house for lunch then he puts Arianne and Alysanne on one horse while he mounts the other and leads them to the pasture in his northwest section. They fetch up at a wire fence beyond which the horses are grazing while the cattle are nowhere in sight. The mares and their foals and the yearlings come running when Jaime whistles while the stallion glares at him from a distance.

The horses are stocky little things, much shorter than the horses in Westeros, bred to work cattle rather than run races, yet beautiful just the same. The foals and yearlings are playfully skittish and watch them with wide, intelligent eyes, reluctant to get closer to the girls until Jaime pulls out the carrots and turnips he had stuffed into his pockets.

“Do you sell them?” Alysanne asks as one particularly wary chestnut yearling stretches out its neck before nipping a carrot from Arianne’s outstretched hand and darting away. They all laugh even as Jaime finds himself reminded of Brienne.

“Of course,” he says. “Everyone around Brandywine Hill has at least a few horses and cattle to sell. Most of the herds are small but you’ll be able to find mounts whenever you’re ready for them.”

Arianne and Alysanne exchange a glance. Jaime raises an internal eyebrow but says nothing.

They feed the animals all the treats they brought with them then Alysanne turns to Jaime with the same determined air as when she asked him to teach them how to shoot, and says, “We should probably work on your cabin.”

“If you wish.”

“Brienne will ask what we did today,” Arianne says, “and we do not wish to lie to her.”

Jaime laughs. “All right. Cabin walls it is, then.”

*/*/*/*/*

Caulking the walls doesn’t take much time. The cabin is small and there are three of them, and Jaime has done much of the work already. For some reason, the thought of his neighbours visiting him in the winter to once again find snow inside the cabin made him uncomfortable, as if such a thing would show he doesn’t consider Medietos his home.

He doesn’t, of course. Even after seventeen years, he dreams of returning to Westeros and his sister’s arms, of being back at the site of his most noble act and his most ignoble end, of walking the halls of Casterly Rock even if he can never claim it as his own. His father disowned him once his relationship with Cersei became known, when they were caught abed the morning of her wedding. Jaime mayhaps would have received a royal pardon for murdering the Mad King if not for that act of treason against the newly crowned King Robert. He sometimes bitterly wishes his father had not forced Robert to go through with the marriage, wishes Robert had exiled Cersei with him. But Tywin controlled the gold that was desperately needed to repair a kingdom ravaged by war and so Cersei became a disgraced Queen while Jaime was stripped of his honours and titles and transported, leaving his sweet sister to face the shame of their incest alone.

Jaime thinks of all the guns in his cabin and is grateful Cersei was spared the harsh reality he faced.

He glances at the Tarth girls as he smooths another layer of daub over the logs of his cabin.

He can’t fault Brienne for her determination to return her sisters, unscathed and untouched, to Westeros as soon as possible.

He gives Arianne and Alysanne another thoughtful look. Sweet girls, he thinks, and definitely better suited for the cultured environs of Westeros. Once he finally receives his pardon and can safely return to the Old Country, mayhaps he can convince Brienne to accept a loan and his escort to return the three of them to the Isle of Tarth.

*/*/*/*/*

**Brienne**

The crescent moon’s light is dim but enough to light the way as Brienne drives past the ruins of Jaime’s house to pull the wagon to a gentle stop in front of the cabin. The small building is dark and quiet as she wraps the oxen’s traces around the pommel and clambers down from the wagon.

“You are lighter by two oxen,” Jaime’s low voice says from the dark shadows beside the cabin, startling her. “The auction was successful then?”

“A wagon train arrived yesterday,” she says. “I had many buyers.”

“A wagon train?” Jaime’s voice is suddenly sharp with interest. “From the east?”

Brienne shakes her head. “From the west, heading to Port Rainer.”

“Ah.”

Brienne wonders at his disappointed tones but leaves her questions unspoken. “My sisters?”

“Asleep in the cabin. They worked hard today.”

“You promised no hard labour.”

Jaime chuckle is low, drifting on the chilly air to warm her ear.

He says, “We went riding and took treats to the horses, then caulked the cabin walls inside and out. They would still be awake except they told me you did not allow them to play cards.”

Brienne hisses in an offended breath. “Of course not, ser!”

“Nor dice.”

Brienne glares at his black shape in the darkness and this time he laughs outright before he fully steps out of the shadows.

“I am sparse on any ladylike entertainment,” he says as he saunters closer, “and even less reading material. All the Westerosi songs I know are seventeen years old, all the Medietosi songs are not fit for children’s ears, and I had no desire to have you box mine when you heard your sisters sing them. Napping was the only way left to pass the time until your return.”

A smile escapes her before she can prevent it and Jaime’s own grin widens.

“Why, Tenny, I believe you have a sense of humour after all.”

Her smile instantly disappears. “I’ll go wake my sisters,” she mutters.

*/*/*/*/*

Her sisters grumble when she wakes them and herds them into the wagon, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Still, the cabin smells of savoury spices and wet earth and Jaime, and while she doesn’t inspect her sisters’ handiwork, she does give an internal nod of satisfaction that they had apparently given a good account of themselves to get the work finished.

Arianne and Alysanne thank Jaime with pretty charm, while Brienne gives him an austere nod, before she turns her oxen towards her homestead. She listens with half-an-ear as the girls sleepily tell her about their day and complain of sore shoulders.

“Most like because you had to keep reaching above you to caulk the cabin walls,” Brienne says, and her sisters sleepily agree.

*/*/*/*/*


	7. Chapter 7

**Brienne**

The weather worsens as winter marches ever closer and Brienne works frantically to ready the homestead, chopping up every dead tree on her homestead and stacking the logs close to hand around the cabin. She always has her rifle beside her and takes every opportunity to bag hares and one day, she manages to take down one of Medietos’ large deer-like animals they call antifers.

_Bigger than a Westerosi deer_ , she thinks smugly as she hauls the animal into the wagon, _and tastes the same._ She feels lighter somehow as she guides the oxen back towards the cabin. The dead antifer she’s taking back with her soothes her fear about her ability to feed her sisters during the long winter months.

Brienne cobbles together a temporary smokehouse and sets to the task of drying, salting, or canning the antifer meat as quickly as possible and reluctantly accepts her sisters’ help. When the temperature drops and stays low, they wrap whatever meat is left and leave it in a box outside to freeze before storing it in the root cellar Brienne had dug outside the cabin.

While her sisters busy themselves with winterizing the cabin, Brienne works outside from the moment she wakes to the moment she tumbles into her bed at night. She refuses her sisters’ offers of help, no matter how much they plead for the gun or the axe, to learn how to fell trees or even just to go with her to help her load logs onto the wagon. Arianne and Alysanne are adapting better than Brienne had expected to the rigors of frontier life but they’re only children. And they’re _ladies_ , small-boned and slender and beautiful, born to manage large estates for their wealthy lord husbands, not work themselves to the bone on a rough homestead in a harsh land.

As she goes about her days, Brienne wonders if Roelle has received her letter and sends another in a long line of prayers to the Mother, begging for Roelle to take pity upon them and pay for the children’s return to Tarth. Brienne received no response to the first letter she had sent when they arrived in Port Rainer, but mayhaps her second one will soften her stepmother’s heart. Roelle had always seemed... _fond_ of Arianne and Alysanne, or at least tolerant of their presence. Mayhaps she misses them enough to arrange their return.

Brienne tries to imagine Roelle caring that deeply about any of her stepchildren and fails.

_It doesn’t matter_ , she tells herself as she guides the oxen to a halt at a new copse and clambers from the wagon, axe in hand. _If Roelle won’t take them back then I’ll do it myself._

She finds an already fallen tree and begins to swing her axe in the familiar rhythm. With every blow, her resolve deepens.

_A year, mayhaps two. I just need to keep them safe until then._

*/*/*/*/*

Winter fully arrives suddenly and with a vengeance, a howling blizzard that leaves them huddled in the cabin for several days. There are several minor spats but her sisters are mostly cheerful as they pass the time sewing new dresses for each other and mending Brienne’s clothes. They chatter about winter and their plans for the spring, sing songs they learned in Westeros and even dance in the cramped space of the cabin, collapsing in laughter on the beds when they inevitably get tangled in their own feet.

Brienne, to her shame, finds herself nodding off in the chair beside the stove, her sisters’ voices a soothing noise even when raised in momentary anger. She only wakes, it seems, to bring in logs for the fire or to inch her way through the swirling wall of snow to care for the oxen.

It’s the most rested she feels since they arrived in Brandywine Hill. She’s almost sorry when the winds finally die away.

*/*/*/*/*

Snow transforms the world, the endless, empty expanse of gold and brown now hidden in swooping, graceful waves of white that are blindingly beautiful.

Literally. 

Brienne’s first experience with snow blindness leaves her stranded in the pasture, unable to clear the glare from her eyes, and unsure of where she is in relation to the cabin. She finally calls for her sisters to lead her home, her eyes streaming and the world reduced to nothing but glaring white light.

Her eyes are still sore and watery when Jaime arrives the next day. His fingers are searingly light against her skin as he gently angles her head so he can peer more closely into her reddened eyes. He frowns, the silence lengthening until Brienne fears the worst before he gruffly assures them she’ll be fine if she stays inside for the day. He steps away and reminds them to smear soot beneath their eyes before they go outside on days when the sun is particularly bright. He accepts their offer of a meal then tends the oxen before he bids them goodnight and returns to his own homestead.

Brienne is both grateful and embarrassed and vows she will never be caught so unprepared again.

*/*/*/*/*

**Jaime**

Jaime rides home, scowling, the memory of Brienne’s tear-filled eyes hovering in front of him like a ghost. They were tears of healing, yes, but... _unsettling,_ nonetheless.

_Her eyes are even prettier when seen close up_ , he thinks, _even if I did have to tilt my head back a little in order to see them clearly. I hadn’t really noticed how tall she is._

The tips of his fingers tingle and he absently rubs his gloved hand against his thigh. He had ridden over to check on his tenderfoot neighbours after the blizzard but hadn’t truly expected to find anything amiss. _Snow blindness is nothing. It happens to all of us, even those who have been here for years. Still...mayhaps I need to keep a closer eye on Tenny than I thought. Her sisters need her, after all._

His homestead comes into sight. The remnants of his previous house are half-buried beneath the fresh snow, the burnt beams glistening with hoarfrost as they clutch at the sky like a particularly bitter old woman.

He shakes his head at the fanciful thought. He keeps the ruins as a reminder but for the first time he wonders if he should ensure their removal before he returns to Westeros.

*/*/*/*/*

In the cold, dark days of winter, even he, Jaime Lannister, the infamous Kingslayer and a brave man, prefers to stay close to home. He still goes into town or visits his neighbours’ on their homesteads, only not as often given the season. He makes a point, however, of stopping at Brienne’s homestead every time he returns to his own.

Jaime decides the winter must be taking its toll on his nearest neighbours because he swears there are days when Brienne almost seems happy to see him.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime helps Brienne with her chores when he’s invited to stay for a meal, and they chop logs and carry feed for the oxen and break holes in the ice that covers the pond so the animals can drink. 

One day, he rides over with a second horse behind him and leads Brienne to his favourite hunting ground about ten miles north of her homestead. Jaime turns to watch Brienne’s face as they top a crest that doesn’t appear to be a crest to find, spread out below them, a rugged, ruinous landscape filled with massive stone pillars capped with flat, precariously perched, snow-covered slabs. Even from this distance they can see the massive columns are smooth brown stone streaked through with lashes of reds and oranges and golds and ivory.

Jaime delights in Brienne’s gasp and dropped jaw, grinning at her until she catches her breath and can speak again.

“What is this place?” she whispers. “Was it built by man or gods?”

Jaime laughs. “Mayhaps the Smith did come and carve the land himself because nothing here was shaped by human hands. In fact, there’s never been any trace of human life found in Medietos other than some crystal hills in the far north that some swear contain tool-marked stones.”

She turns wide, fascinated eyes in his direction. “Truly?”

“So they say. I haven’t seen them myself but Tormund has and while he tells many a tall tale, he was deadly serious when he told me that one.” Jaime pulls in a deep breath, the cold air singeing his nose. “Mayhaps I should make a point of travelling north to see those sites for myself before I leave for Westeros.”

Brienne straightens in her saddle. “Westeros?”

Jaime grins. “King Robert has, I understand, softened over the years.” _In more ways than one, if Cersei and Tyrion’s letters speak true._ “He’s become more forgiving as he grows older.”

“You believe he’ll grant you a pardon?”

“So I’ve been told. ‘Tis just a matter of persuading Lord Arryn, his Hand, to convince the King to put his signature and seal to the paper.”

Brienne blinks then says. “The King has much to forgive.”

“It’s been seventeen years,” Jaime says, “and the previous King was mad.”

“And the new Queen was your sister.”

“Still is, truth be told. Queen. And my sister.”

The air is suddenly sharp with tension and not just cold. Brienne stares at him for a long moment then deliberately turns back to the landscape in front of them.

“What is this place?” she asks again.

“Dangerous,” Jaime says. She huffs in exasperation but he thinks he hears a tinge of amusement in it and he relaxes. “We call them the badlands. Too rough for farming, too dangerous for ranching. The ground is rocky and uneven, and once you’re down among the pillars, the place is a maze. It’s easy to lose your cattle and your way if you don’t pay attention. But it has a multitude of water holes and tiny streams and there are any number of small caves and cracks in the rocks that provide shelter for animals in the winter. There’s also a vein of wightseyestone that I work several times a year. Once cut and polished, I understand the stone makes a pretty blue bauble that sets off a lady’s hand to perfection. They’re surprisingly popular in Westeros. I send everything we mine to Tyrion and he sells them for a tidy profit―discreetly, of course. No highborn dare sully his hands with trade, after all. In winter, I usually find antifer here along with the white wolves that hunt them. White wolf fur is also highly prized, both here and in Westeros, and brings a pretty penny. There are usually great flocks of scrubfowl as well.” Brienne looks puzzled. “Similar to quail, although they prefer the badlands to the open plains. You likely haven’t seen one yet.”

“I have not,” she says. “I had wondered if there were game birds here.”

Jaime grins. “There are, and with luck, we’ll flush a few for our suppers tonight. I’ll lead the way and the horse you’re riding knows this place well. We won’t go far.”

Brienne is still staring at him like she’s never seen him before and he raises an eyebrow.

She flushes. “Hopefully we’ll have a good hunt.”

“If not, at least it’s a beautiful ride.”

*/*/*/*/*

They find no antifer but they do bag two scrubfowl, and he offers Brienne both when Arianne and Alysanne invite him back the next day for supper.

Jaime watches with a smile as Brienne closes her eyes at the first taste and hums her pleasure.

She opens her eyes and catches him watching her. Red creeps up her neck as she mutters, “We have not had fowl in a very long time.”

Arianne and Alysanne nod their agreement.

“Nor I,” Jaime says and takes a hearty bite.

“Does anyone sell chickens in Brandywine Hill?” Arianne asks.

Jaime nods. “Wenda and Big Belly Ben are closest to us and are always willing to sell a few. There’ll also be boxes of chicks for sale at the stockyards in the spring.”

Alysanne gives Brienne a thoughtful look, and Brienne sighs. “Mayhaps a clutch of chicks will keep you two occupied while I work the fields―but they’re meant for eating, not pets!”

The twins meekly nod their heads.

“How many of the chicks will end up in your stew pot?” Jaime asks when he and Brienne stroll to the barn for the evening chores.

“None,” she says sourly, and he laughs.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime makes a point of taking Brienne hunting in the badlands every few weeks, whenever the weather softens enough for them to spend the full day outside and he’s not heading to Brandywine Hill or to one of his other neighbours’ homesteads.

During their outings, Jaime shares casual gossip about their neighbours, who is having a good winter, or a bad one, who was born and who died. He tells her how Old Oswyn Longneck’s heart finally gave out on him. He, along with Wenda and Big Belly Ben, may have been in the Kingswood Brotherhood but here in Brandywine Hill, he had been known only as a good neighbour.

“He’ll be missed,” Jaime says.

“He was a traitor to the Iron Throne,” Brienne says, but Jaime hears only curiosity in her voice, not judgment.

“So was I,” Jaime says and laughs. “Medietos may have been intended as a punishment and a death sentence but it offered people like Old Oswyn a second chance. Some take that second chance.” He has a sudden memory of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides. “Some don’t.”

Jaime changes the subject to spring planting even though that season seems very far away when surrounded by snow with their breath frosting the air. Still, it’s never too early to begin planning for spring especially when they both have a quota of land to break before the next winter.

“You still have to fulfill a quota?” Brienne asks, surprised.

Jaime nods. It’s a beautiful day, the air still and the sky blue. The horses’ hooves crunch against the snow and in the distance he hears birdsong. It’s desolate and beautiful and he’ll almost miss it when he’s back in King’s Landing. “Sixty acres,” he says.

“I’m surprised.”

“I claimed another two sections last year, mostly for farmland instead of pasture. Just like you, I’m required to break thirty acres per section per year.”

“I thought...you seem very well respected around here.”

“I like to think so.”

“Why would you still need to meet your quota, then?”

Jaime laughs. “Because I signed a homestead agreement like everybody else and a man is only as good as the promises he keeps.” They ride in silence then Jaime slides a glance at her and says, “You know, we help each other out around here. If someone’s sick and can’t plant their crops or make their quota, we work together to get the work done, just like harvest. Mayhaps you―”

“No.”

Jaime shakes his head and changes the subject.

*/*/*/*/*

**Brienne**

The days are short and dark, and the winds of winter, when they come, are unforgiving. There are weeks when the temperature drops to a brutal depth that seeps into the very marrow of her bones so she can never get warm, and the howling winds fling snow that pelts against any piece of exposed skin until she feels half-flayed by it. The warmer days provide only a short respite in a winter that is hard and sharp and unforgiving and yet...

...and yet...

On the coldest of days, when the sun itself seems made of ice set in a glittering blue sky, Brienne sometimes stops and stares around her, drinking in the harsh, frigid beauty of the vast emptiness that surrounds her and feels both insignificant and as if she is the only living creature in a world created just for her.

*/*/*/*/*

There are warmer days, when the air softens and turns welcoming. Those are the days her sisters frolic in what little heat the sun shines down upon them. They trudge their way to the nearest copse to slide down the banks of snow that have piled high against the trees. They make winged shapes in the snow and toss snowballs at each other and Brienne or Jaime if he’s there, then scramble away, squealing with laughter when Brienne or Jaime chases after them.

Brienne watches the three of them play, hiding her smiles behind a gloved hand. She forces herself to remember that the beautiful golden-haired man covered in snow and laughing with her sisters is the infamous incestuous Kingslayer, a transported criminal, and―she watches as Alysanne tackles him into a pile of snow―a dangerous man.

*/*/*/*/*

“Brandywine Hill is filled to bursting,” Jaime tells them one evening as he sprawls in a chair beside the stove. “A wagon train arrived yesterday.” He smiles, his eyes dreamy as he touches his breast pocket and Brienne sees a slim stack of letters peeking over its edge. Then his smile fades. “The wagon master should have known better than to start their journey so late in the year. They were trapped by blizzards and slowed by the snow and cold. They’re lucky they made it this far.”

“They’re not staying?” Alysanne says.

Jaime shrugs. “They’re here until spring, at least. Most are heading further west and from there, some are heading north and south.” He glances at Brienne. “There are three mail order brides, travelling together.”

Brienne’s expression doesn’t change. “I wish them better luck than I had,” she says.

“I think you’ve recovered quite well,” Jaime says and smiles.

Brienne’s cheeks warm but she can’t help looking around the cabin with a sense of relief and pride. Small and crude, yes, but warm and cozy and _hers_. Her sisters are in good spirits and healthy, and the root cellar, while not overflowing, holds enough food to last them through the rest of the winter and is regularly supplemented thanks to her hunting trips with Jaime as well as her solo efforts. She managed to bag two hares this morning so they were able to offer him a veritable feast when he arrived.

She meets his eyes and says, “Yes.”

*/*/*/*/*

Nothing lasts forever, not even winter.

The year ends, a new year begins, and the days begin to lengthen and warm. One morning, Brienne stops on her way to tend the oxen and sniffs the air.

_Spring_ , she thinks. _It smells like spring._

*/*/*/*/*

**Jaime**

Jaime steps out of his cabin and takes a deep breath.

_Spring_ , he thinks. _It smells like spring._

He grins. As always, the promise of warmer weather after a cold, hard winter makes him almost giddy.

Spring means calves and foals, the breaking of new ground and the planting of seed, and rumbling lines of wagons once again plodding their ponderous way across the plains between Port Rainer and Brandywine Hill. Spring means the hope for new letters from Tyrion and mayhaps even Cersei. He’s had nothing more since the wagon train with the three mail order brides but that is hardly surprising. Still, those half-dozen short letters, mostly from Tyrion, lightened the darkest of winter days, when Jaime couldn’t go into town or to Brienne’s or visit with his other neighbours.

Almost everyone in Brandywine Hill managed quite well, Jaime thinks with satisfaction as he strides towards the barn to begin his morning chores. Old Oswyn was the only casualty this year, the Greyjoy brothers married two of Lady Margaery’s girls, which greatly relieved Brienne’s mind, and three babies were born. Brandywine Hill is thriving and their status as the Gateway to the West well secured.

_Not that it will matter much longer for me_ , he thinks, grinning. _I’ll receive my pardon this year, I’m sure of it._

It was a bit of a setback that the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, had died in the autumn. One of Tyrion’s letters had detailed Lord Arryn’s painful and lingering end and while Jaime has no love for the man, even he had cringed at Tyrion’s lurid description. Cersei’s letter bitterly complained of the timing, telling him Lord Arryn had finally been convinced to act as Jaime’s champion and plead his case to Robert. Now Lord Arryn is dead and Robert was determined to name Lord Ned Stark as Hand.

This was disheartening news since Ned holds him in even lower esteem than Lord Arryn since Ned found him sitting on the Iron Throne, Mad King Aerys dead at his feet...but that was a long time ago and if Lord Arryn could be convinced he deserves a pardon, Jaime has no doubt Ned can be convinced as well.

_Ned is an honourable man,_ Jaime thinks, _even is he’s overly hidebound because of it._ _While he has no love for me, he’ll feel bound to honour Lord Arryn’s last wishes and if he’s reluctant, well, if anyone can convince Stark to support my pardon, it’s Cersei._ Jaime briefly wonders if Stark will listen to a Queen who cuckolded her husband-to-be then shakes off his doubts. _Cersei’s been loyal to the King since,_ he thinks. _I’ve been trapped here, after all, and she’s been as faithful to me as I’ve been to her._

Even with this disappointing news, Jaime couldn’t help but be amused by the two letters Cersei and Tyrion had written after Lord Arryn’s death. Cersei’s last letter told how Robert was dragging them all to Winterfell, even the children. It started with her complaints of moving an entire royal household and three children such a distance while so close to winter and ended with a lament that all the white wolf furs Jaime had sent her were now too old and threadbare to take with her as a reminder of him. Jaime made a note about the furs even as he laughed at her petty concerns, thinking of the canvas covered wagons used by settlers in Medietos.

Tyrion’s last letter had been sent from the Neck, filled with light yet biting descriptions of Robert’s drunken antics during their journey up to that point. It had been amusing and infuriating and while Jaime burns with curiosity about what’s been happening in Westeros, he knows he likely still has weeks to wait until new letters can reach him.

_I hope the rest of the journey went more smoothly,_ Jaime thinks as he reaches the barn and opens the door. _I wonder how Cersei and her children enjoyed their time in Winterfell?_

*/*/*/*/*

**Brienne**

The days warm and the snow melts, turning their world of white into a world of water and mud.

The girls turn thirteen and Brienne bakes them a cake, wishing she was clever with her hands so she could make them gifts. She briefly thinks of making a trip to town but the ground is so wet the wagon would be bogged down before she even made it half-way. Mayhaps if she had a horse...

She counts her coin and reluctantly decides there’s none to spare for a horse, at least not now, and besides, even Jaime hasn’t forced his way through the muck for what feels like an endless number of days. A horse would be convenient but their return to Westeros is more important and she needs must hoard as many dragons as possible.

*/*/*/*/*

With spring comes rain and the smell of green, increased birdsong, soft breezes that dry the mud, and another rash of visitors, including the Greyjoy brothers with their new wives.

The winter had been so long and cold and dark, she’s almost happy to see even them.

*/*/*/*/*

Spring also brings hard work.

Brienne readies the plow, checks her seeds, and practices with the oxen, learning how to control them and the plow by turning over an acre of land beside the cabin so the girls can plant and tend a larger garden while Brienne works the fields.

*/*/*/*/*

The days continue to warm and Brienne walks her homestead, testing the ground, torn between a site near the cabin and several that are on the furthest edges of her homestead but which may be more productive. Jaime sometimes joins her, sharing the latest gossip or just silently strolling beside her, enjoying the warmer days.

“Another two days, I think,” Jaime says on one such walk.

Brienne nods. “If there’s no rain.”

“How much seed do you have?”

“Enough for the 30 acres I need to plant,” Brienne snaps.

Jaime shakes his head and laughs. “I’m just asking a question, Brienne.”

She ducks her head, feeling foolish.

Jaime stops and gives her a curious look, his head tilted to one side. “You don’t need to do this alone, Brienne. Breaking thirty acres of virgin grassland is backbreaking work. You and the girls could use all the help you can get.”

She lifts her head and glares. “I’ll be fine,” she growls and starts walking again.

She hears Jaime’s sigh before he follows her.

*/*/*/*/*

**Jaime**

Brienne is infuriatingly stubborn and close-minded with an unimaginable amount of hard work ahead of her—but she’s not the only one with a quota to meet. Jaime begins working his fields on the day he predicted but he’s almost immediately called away to Raymun Redbeard’s homestead after his wife, Harma, sends word that Raymun’s leg was broken by one of his oxen.

Jaime helps rally the neighbours and they spend several days finishing Raymun’s seeding, eating Harma’s food, and drinking their beer in boisterous celebration of a job well done before returning to their own homes. Jaime finds himself wishing Brienne and her sisters had been there, but Brienne had been working in the fields when he stopped by their cabin to let them know he would be gone for a few days. Besides, Brienne would never have agreed to bring the girls anyway.

It’s early afternoon when Jaime reaches his homestead. He checks on the animals in the pasture before he cares for his horse and releases him to join the others. He’s walking to his cabin, looking forward to a meal and his own bed, when he looks to the east and sees Arianne and Alysanne’s slight forms silhouetted against the horizon as they stride towards him.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime thoughtfully considers the sisters as he hangs up his coat then grabs Cersei’s letters from pride of place in the centre of the table and tucks them away on a shelf. Alysanne and Arianne look angry enough to spit nails, which makes them look remarkably like their older sister. Jaime sincerely hopes he’s not the one who’s caused this distress.

“What’s going on?” he says as he gestures to the girls to sit at the table.

Arianne and Alysanne exchange a glance, take identical deep breaths, then the words spill out: Brienne is working herself to death, she won’t let them help, she’s been camped out for the last week in the fields and insists they stay in the cabin, that she’s too far away for them to even bring her food or to do much more than check on her. They’ve finally had enough and have been checking Jaime’s homestead every afternoon for the last three days, waiting for his return.

“She refuses to listen to sense!” Arianne cries.

_At least she’s finally letting you out of her sight for more than an hour at a time._ “She’s trying to protect you,” Jaime says, although the gods only know why he’s defending the stubborn wench. “The oxen can be dangerous and the work is backbreaking. I’m sure she’s doing the best she can, being a woman on her own.”

“She’s not on her own,” Alysanne says flatly, “she has _us_.” She sounds so like Brienne, Jaime abruptly scratches his nose in an effort to hide his smile. “We can _help_ but she won’t leave the gun with us so we can practice shooting and help put meat on the table. She doesn’t even want us to fell trees or chop our own firewood!”

Jaime frowns. “Not even to break the logs for the stove?”

“She says it will ruin our hands, make them look like hers. As if having our hands in dishwater doesn’t ruin them already.”

“Or in lye water when we wash clothes,” Arianne adds.

“Or when we grub in the garden.”

“She’s always insisting we’re ladies and needs must act that way. As if anyone in Medietos cares!”

“She somehow thinks a few callouses on our palms will make us unsuitable for the Westerosi highborn men she insists we’ll still marry someday.”

Jaime listens in growing disbelief as the sisters share all their grievances with him. The winter must have unnerved them more than he realized, else Arianne and Alysanne would never speak about their frustrations so freely.

The sisters finally fall silent and stare at him with expectant eyes that are like-but-not-quite-like their sister’s.

He sighs. “Where is she?”

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime sees Brienne’s scowl long before he reaches her. He comes to a stop and stares down at her, his eyes tracing the long lines of her legs in her dirty, baggy trousers, her collarbone peeking out from the open buttons of her sweat-stained cotton shirt, and the creases in her furrowed brow that stand out in stark relief thanks to dust and sweat. She looks tired and hot and unwelcoming and for some reason, the sight of her stirs him to anger in a way that her sisters’ words failed to do.

“I don’t have time to visit, Jaime,” she says. Then, “Welcome back.”

Jaime leans on the pommel of his saddle and gives her a steady look. “How long have you been working out here without a break?”

Her frown deepens. “What does it matter?”

“Your sisters are worried about you.”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “You need to stay on your own homestead more often.”

Jaime grits his teeth then dismounts to stand in front of her.

“Show me your hands,” he growls.

Brienne’s mouth sets into mulish lines as she curls her hands into fists and Jaime thinks it’s all she can do not to hide them behind her back.

“Brienne,” he snaps, “you don’t have to do this alone. _Show me your hands._ ”

For a long, silent moment, he wonders if she’s going to do as he asks or if she’s going to punch him in the nose or simply turn and run for the safety of her cabin, a quarter mile away. Finally she straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin as she unfurls her fingers and thrusts out her hands, palms turned towards the sky.

As he expected, they’re red and raw with broken blisters and half-formed callouses. To his own surprise, pity floods through him. Something about the look on her face and her proud defiance reminds him of the first time he saw her, standing tall and stoic in that dusty wagon yard while Red Ronnet jeered and publicly rejected her.

He softens.

“I understand why you’re distrustful,” he says. “Your welcome here was...less than warm.”

She stares at him as if he’s suddenly sprouted a second head.

He grimaces. “That description does not, of course, do it justice. Still...” He frowns, hesitating, then says, “Come with me.”

“I most certainly will not! I still have half an acre to plow before the end of the day!”

Jaime rolls his eyes. “This won’t take long. You’ll be back, plowing the field and suffering in oh-so-noble silence in no time.” His smile is thin and sharp. “We can walk or we can ride double to save time.”

Her eyes narrow and he wonders how he’s still standing against the force of her glare.

“Trust me,” he says.

“I don’t―”

“I know you don’t but you have to start somewhere.”

*/*/*/*/*

**Brienne**

They ride in silence to Jaime’s homestead, and Brienne fumes with resentment as she does her best to keep her balance while touching him as lightly as possible. She’s never been this close to any man before, let alone Jaime, and if she weren’t so annoyed with the bloody meddler, she’d probably be blushing and tongue-tied with embarrassment. As it is, she’s flushed and tongue-tied with anger.

She glances up at the sky.

This better not take long. She was hoping to have that acre finished by nightfall.

Her hands sting and throb with every step of the horse but she’s over the worst of it after two weeks. The last of the blisters are healing and becoming callouses, just like when she wielded the axe every day in the fall. What’s left are just small pains in different places and she doesn’t know why the sight of them bothered Jaime so much. They’ll heal soon enough and the work will go faster...but not if this annoying man keeps interrupting her!

“You’ll be back behind that fucking plow in no time,” Jaime growls and Brienne wonders if she spoke out loud.

She answers him with a muttered, wordless growl of her own and hopes he smothers on the waves of resentment even she can feel pouring off her.

To her surprise, he doesn’t stop at his cabin. Instead, he takes her to the ruins of his previous house. They dismount in front of it and he stands, silently staring, a frown creasing his handsome features. His shoulders are tense, his muscles taut, and Brienne turns from him to the ruins, trying to understand why they’re here.

She hasn’t been on his homestead in months so she feels like she’s seeing the ruins for the first time. She’d forgotten the sheer scale of them and she can’t help but be impressed again. While the building that once stood here couldn’t hope to match the size of the Red Keep or Evenfall Hall, what’s left prove it was large enough to rival the houses of the richest merchants in Westeros, mayhaps even those she’s heard about in the Free Cities.

They stand in silence until Brienne finally ventures, “It must have been a sight to behold?”

Jaime doesn’t immediately respond and she wonders how much longer he’s going to stand there, saying nothing, while her oxen and plow wait for her hand to guide them. Her broken blisters throb again at the thought.

Finally, his eyes fixed on the blackened timbers, Jaime says, “It was the largest house in Medietos. I made sure of it.”

Brienne sighs. “Why are we here, Jaime?”

“For a story.” He turns and gives her a knife-like smile, his eyes glittering with some emotion she can’t quite decipher. “When I arrived in Medietos almost eighteen years ago now, I was a real son-of-a-bitch.”

Brienne blinks. “All right?”

“I was young—only seventeen and full of all the arrogance of youth. I was a newly-minted Kingslayer and an incestuous one at that, convicted, disgraced, and disowned, but I was still a highborn from a Great House, a Lannister of Casterly Rock, the youngest knight to ever be raised to the Kingsguard, beloved of the new Queen, and a dangerous man.”

Brienne cocks her head to one side and frowns.

He chuckles. “Someone tried to kill me my first day in Port Rainer.”

Brienne raises an eyebrow.

“I see you understand the sentiment.”

“Well...mayhaps not _actually_ kill you,” she mutters.

Jaime laughs and the tension in his shoulders eases. “You are kinder than most of the people I know. I have a large collection of guns, each one taken from someone who tried to kill me and failed. Some are from our more recent brief skirmishes against the Iron Throne but most are from my early years here, when I turned everyone I met into an enemy rather than a friend.”

“Are you saying I’m making people want to kill me, too?”

“You’re walking a similar albeit much kinder path. I doubt you’ll stir such hatred even if you act as if you’re above us all.”

“I don’t think I’m above anyone!”

“How would they know? You’ve rebuffed almost every friendly overture made to you.”

“I have children to protect!”

Jaime sighs. “Yes. Yes, you do. But you don’t need to keep them isolated.”

“They’re not your children,” Brienne snaps and turns away. “I have work to do.” She stomps towards the horse they had ridden here.

“They’re not your children either,” Jaime calls after her, “they’re your _sisters_. And they want to help.”

Brienne whirls around and stomps back to him until they’re practically nose to nose. “It’s not your business!”

Jaime doesn’t move, his smile now a rueful smirk.

“You’re just like I was,” he says with a shake of his head. “You have nowhere near the same depth of selfish, thoughtless cruelty but your motivation is the same and just as strong as mine. So believe me when I tell you that motivation has blinded you.”

“What are you _talking_ about? Why did you bring me here, Jaime?”

“I’m talking about _love_ , Brienne! Everything you do is because of your love for your sisters just like everything I do is because of my love for Cersei.”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “And you had to bring me here to tell me about how much you love your sister?”

“Of course that isn’t why I brought you here, with your field still to plow while your hands bleed!”

“Jaime, for the _gods’ sakes_!”

Jaime takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his hair while taking a deep breath. “My apologies, my lady. This is more difficult than I expected.” He replaces his hat with a determined air and says, “I treated people like shit.”

Brienne rolls her eyes and his laugh is a quick, harsh bark. 

“Mayhaps not a surprise, of course. I was a young, arrogant, highborn thrown into the midst of murderers and thieves. Nowhere near as dangerously unpredictable as the Mad King but still not to be taken lightly. While I desperately missed Cersei and worried for her, I was even more desperate to be with her again. During my long journey in the belly of that convict ship, I convinced myself that the people here were nothing more than pawns to be used to reach my ultimate goal.”

“Which was?”

“If I couldn’t return to Cersei in Westeros, then I would bring her to me. But first I had to give her a life fit for a queen.”

He turns to stare again at the burnt out ruins of the house.

“I treated people like shit,” he says again, more quietly this time. “I used them and abused them to establish a reputation and created a modicum of safety for myself through that reputation. Then I used them to make as much money as I possibly could, as quickly as I could, no matter who was hurt in the process.” His smile is bitter. “In other words, I became my father. He would be so proud.”

He shakes his head. “I stepped on a few toes, ruined many lives, made countless enemies. I ended up being run out of Port Rainer although the townsfolk stopped short of putting me on an actual rail. Tormund was one of the men I ruined. He followed me out of town, where he beat the shit out of me then tried to talk sense into me then brought me here. Brandywine Hill was brand new then, with maybe half a dozen sod houses, a couple of farms, and a brothel above the tavern. A tiny vein of wightseyestone had been found in the nearby badlands and while it wasn’t worth anything in Medietos, I knew it would go over well in Westeros…if I could get it there. I…took over. I took over the town, the mine, the wagon trains, even some of the ships that plowed the seas between the continents. I had business partners but no friends and I ended up with more guns in my collection. Not that I cared. I was accumulating money and building this house.

“By then my brother Tyrion’s mercenaries had found me and we began exchanging letters. Tyrion in turn became my courier with Cersei and my toehold to create deeper connections to the merchant class in Westeros. He also became my co-conspirator to smuggle Cersei out of King’s Landing and Westeros, and to do it in such a way that no one would think to look for her.”

Jaime pauses and Brienne, too, turns to look at the burnt out foundations.

He says, “I was building a house fit for a queen...by Medietos’ standards, at least. And whatever she wanted when she arrived here, I would give her. If she wanted a bigger house? A castle? A throne? I would find a way, no matter what I had to do or to whom, so long as she was by my side. When I finally had enough money to keep her in luxury and the house was finished, I sent messages to Tyrion and Cersei on the first steamship back to the Old Country, then several weeks later, I left for Port Rainer.” He chuckles. “I still wasn’t allowed within the city limits so I made camp in the woods. Didn’t matter. I was there and all I had left to do was wait.”

Brienne glances at Jaime, who now has a wistful look on his face.

“She said no.”

Brienne catches her breath.

“Instead of my sweet sister I received a letter instead. She alternated between berating me for a fool and professing her undying love for me...but the answer was no. She was a _Queen,_ her son would sit the Iron Throne, and Medietos was still a penal colony. There was nothing here she wanted. Except me. And I wasn’t enough.”

Jaime falls silent and Brienne ponders his words. “So what happened to the house?” she finally asks and winces at her blunt tone.

His mouth quirks into a half-smile as he slides her a rueful glance. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, Tenny, it’s that you always get right to the point.” He shrugs. “I rode hellbent for leather back to Brandywine Hill, reading that damned letter every night along the way, trying to find something― _anything_ ―that would tell me that Cersei could be convinced to fall in with my plans, that she just needed more time, and failing every time. It was dark when I rode onto my homestead and when I saw the house...”

He scowls at the rubble of the home his love had built for one who would never arrive.

“ _You_ burned it,” Brienne whispers.

“It was madness. Rage. Despair. I intended to burn with it, you know.”

Brienne pulls in her breath with a sharp hiss and Jaime slides another glance at her then shrugs.

“It’s the truth. It was pitch dark when it finally caught and it lit up the world. I learned later the glow could be seen all the way in Brandywine Hill. I stood and watched it burn, intending to throw myself into the flames but I felt locked in place. All I could see were the St—” He stops abruptly and shakes his head before he turns to face her. “Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I was too craven to offer myself to the flames...and not a single neighbour rushed to my aid.”

Brienne’s eyes widen. Even in her near isolation she knows Jaime is embedded in every aspect of life in Brandywine Hill. For the gods’ sakes, he’s only just returned from helping a neighbour for the last two weeks.

“No one?” she asks.

“I don’t blame them. I treated them like garbage and if I were them, I would have shown up just to be sure I perished in the fire. The fact none did even that is a point in their favour.” He chuckles, a rueful, bitter sound. “The smoke cleared not just from this pile of rubble but from my eyes as well. I was too craven to die but I had also been too craven to fully live. Cersei was right to refuse me. What kind of life would she have had here, given how I had isolated myself? I had built a house but not a life, and she would have shrivelled beneath this sky with no one but me for company. She needs more. She _deserves_ more.”

Jaime stares at Brienne, his eyes searching, seemingly into her very soul. She lifts her chin and refuses to look away as time stands still.

Then he blinks and time begins again.

He chuckles and says, “I see you understand me very well.” He gestures at the ruins. “I burned this house almost ten years ago now and I keep these ashes to remind me of the time when there was _literally no one_ around me who cared if I lived or died. I do not ever want to return to that moment or allow that part of me to control me again. _This_ is my life now, even with a pardon so close I can taste it, and I needs must act like it. While I may finally reunite with Cersei within the next year or two, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t enjoy what I have, here and now, with my friends and neighbours.”

Brienne stands in awkward silence then, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Jaime sighs. “You don’t have to say anything, Brienne. I just want you to _hear_ what I’m saying. You don’t need to struggle through all of this alone. It’ll likely take years before you have enough money to return to Westeros with the girls. I guarantee that sooner or later, you’ll need the help of your neighbours.”

*/*/*/*/*

Brienne works her field in thoughtful silence, her hands burning and throbbing beneath the cloth bandages Jaime had insisted on wrapping round them before they rode back to her plow. She thinks so hard and so intently that she can’t tell if it’s her hands that are paining her or her mind.

She finishes the acre, then loads the plow onto the wagon and leads the oxen home in the deepening dusk to find the cabin awash with light. Her sisters greet her with genuine delight and their bright chatter sheds more light than the lanterns. As she listens, Brienne accepts that while she may well be able to survive in isolation, her sisters were far more social and did not deserve such a life. She may intend to return them to Westeros as soon as she has the money to do so but until that day comes, Arianne and Alysanne are not the only ones who needs must make the best of their situation.

As the girls clear up after their meal, Brienne tells them she’ll take them into town at the end of the week and is rewarded with their squeals of glee.

*/*/*/*/*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Sorry for taking so long to update any of my WIPs. It's been an interesting couple of months filled with good things and bad things and just overall stressful things, all of which sent my muses even deeper into hiding.
> 
> On the up side: I finally feel the urge to write again so I'm going to enjoy it while I can. :)


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